Sherlock's Woman
by Ibaraz
Summary: Post-S3. Two years ago, Sherlock Holmes faked his suicide and has since gone back to his old life at Baker St. When the mysterious Irene Adler returns, the man is faced with his greatest challenge yet; the possibility of love. As an old foe returns, Sherlock, John and Irene must cooperate to survive. This time, however, the stakes might be too high even for Sherlock Holmes.
1. The unexpected text

_A/N 2014: The story will be edited during January to follow the anticipated season 3 of Sherlock (be patient if you notice differences between the chapters, it will be fixed)! Hope the important alterations won't upset anyone! Basically, this story (more or less) picks up not long after season 3 ended._

__Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.__

__Spoilers: All of season 3.__

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><p><strong>Sherlock's Woman<strong>

**Chapter 1: The unexpected text**

Sherlock had always been the brightest child, he knew that. It had been evident from a young age that no one matched his intellect, with the exception of his elder brother Mycroft. The elder man had, in fact, more than once during their infancy made his brother feel quite dim, before they were introduced to other chilren.

There had been few people who intellectually challenged him in a satisfying way, and so he had early on grown tired of his supposed friends and abandoned them. It was a common feat of Sherlock's, that whenever he grew tired of something or someone, he simply would leave it behind in search of some new challenge.

He needed his challenges and adrenaline kicks, it was a part of who he was and there was very little else that he cared about. It was the main reason he'd resorted to become a consultant detective in the first place, there was nothing that could measure up to the thrill of a good detective challenge.

The prospect of friendship was something he had initially, from experiencing how stupid people merely slowed him down, rejected. He hated dumb people above all else and for a long time in his life he had no one to truly call "friend". Then John Watson had appeared in his life; quite stupid, yet cunning in his own way and with a resourcefulness and bluntness that eventually had intrigued Sherlock's mind. John was the perfect ordinary man to Sherlock's supremeness.

He still wasn't sure exactly how they had grown to be friends and room mates back then, but Sherlock valued John's friendship and vague intelligence in a way he had never cared for anyone in the past. Still, John had never quite been clever enough to follow the man's train of thought, nor had Sherlock ever found it satisfying enough to include his best friend in all of his intellectual games. There were other qualities to John that Sherlock liked. Such as his loyalty to his friend, his brute honesty and his persistence. As far as intelligence went… well, maybe Sherlock could live with the fact that John lacked a bit in that compartment.

In truth, there had only ever been two persons who had been able to match Sherlock's intelligence and wit. The first had been the detective's self-proclaimed nemesis, Jim Moriarty. The consultant criminal who sometimes had seemed to wield powers beyond even Sherlock's comprehension. He had to admit that Moriarty had been the first criminal to constantly remain one step ahead of him, and therefore had in a roundabout way awoken both his curiosity and won his respect. Not that Sherlock ever would admit as much to the other man.

Moriarty's cunning intellect had been proven beyond any doubt when he almost had brought the consultant detective to a complete stop with his fairy tale games and bread crumbs that had ultimately led to the demise of them both. At least a temporary demise. Moriarty had ruined the trust in Sherlock's unique abilties as a detective to the public and had in a fantastic display of power brought Sherlock literally to his knees by threatening the lives of those close to Sherlock. Moriarty had demanded Sherlock's suicide and literal fall from grace to keep his dear ones alive. The Reichenbach hero's fall, as he had playfully called it.

But Sherlock had found the one weakness to his plan; Moriarty himself. What the consultant criminal had considered his finest display of power had been nothing but a false pretense, watched from the shadows by the Holmes brothers. Still, when the detective had at last faced off with his nemesis, the clever consultant criminal had played an unseen trump card. He had put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, and so Sherlock's last life line had been seemingly terminated. The detective had been forced to take extreme measures to the point of faking his own death and fall from grace in the media's eyes in order to keep his friends safe.

That had been almost three years ago now, and he had since then "returned to the living", much to the shock of the public, the police and most importantly John. Sherlock had explained it all to the press, after having exonerated himself in the public's eye; how he had faked his death with the help of Molly Hooper, how he had used the time as 'dead' to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network and how he'd been forced to return to London due to a terrorist threat. It had felt damn good to return to 221 B Baker Street and his old life after such a long time in hiding.

Upon returning to the land of the living, however, the man had learned a fact that in equal parts disturbed and fascinated him. There had been no body found after Moriarty's suicide, and despite Sherlock's attempts since he had not unearthed much about the former dead criminal. Sherlock knew what he had seen when Moriarty had pulled the trigger, but also knew not to trust even his eyes when it concerned the criminal master mind. No body and no clues could be found if there was no dead person to find. How, Sherlock wasn't sure, but then again he himself had survived the fall off St. Bart's roof and survived. Well, it had been a bit more intricate than that, of course.

The only piece to the puzzle he had to go on was the odd message that had been broadcast all over England only a month ago. "_Did you miss me?_"

There had been nothing since, not even a suspicious dust bunny to go on. Still, Sherlock knew Moriarty, the scheming, playful devil that he was, would surely be in touch sooner rather than later, as soon as the right crime came along to thrill the mind that was James Moriarty. It was merely a matter of time, and a matter of how long the criminal consultant could keep away from his games.

The second person who had fascinated Sherlock to no end was the one of a kind dominatrix, Irene Adler. Or _The woman_ as Sherlock preferred to call her, the nickname was a secret homage to the one woman who'd outsmarted the detective or damn well been closer than anyone else. She had almost brought an entire nation down on its knees, had it not been for his last deduction. She had been clever, perhaps even more so than Moriarty, and was almost an equal match to the detective's own intelligence. She was cunning and resorceful as well as being a big tease. She was a master at disguising herself, too, in ways that had even Sherlock Holmes unable to deduce the truth about her.

She had flirted with him and his intelligence more times than he could count and he still kept all her text messages safely on his phone. The phone which had been her lifeline and weapon once, though stripped of all its content now, lay safe in Sherlock's keep. That, too, was a keepsake for his memory of her.

Though Irene had been the brightest woman Sherlock had ever met, it was in her love of games she had exposed her greatest weakness. Love. Or Lust. Sherlock couldn't quite deduce which it was. Either way, he had been the target of her affection.

She had been as fascinated by his intelligence as he had been of hers, but unlike him she had played her cards with her heart at stake and that had been her ultimate end. Sherlock had all his life, long before meeting Irene, believed that love was the ultimate flaw to an intelligent mind, and she had confirmed that in the most haunting manner. When she had realized he had found her weakness, there had been a fear in her eyes he had never seen since. It had not only been the fear for her life that had shone so clear in her eyes, but also a fear for her heart and a fear of him.

Sherlock had never known love in his life, but something had stirred in him when Irene had been a part of his existence. She had been his equal in so many ways, and sometimes Sherlock wondered what challenges she would have presented to him if she had remained in his world. The only thing Sherlock was sure of, was that he could never forget the woman and constantly found his thougths drifting to her even though it had been years since he last saw her face to face.

It had been this fascination of her that had made him follow her four years back when Mycroft pulled Irene away after Sherlock had figured her secret out. The fact that he had followed her every move back then was something he had not shared with anyone, not even John. Sherlock hadn't intended for Irene to know either, merely wanting to make sure she was safe so that he could let her go, but fate had stepped in and changed everything. Sherlock had been forced to reveal his presence in order to save her from the cruel fate of beheading.

Afterwards he had helped the beautiful woman disappear once more, this time she had vanished even from his watchful eyes, and then covered up all traces of her survival. As far as the world knew, Irene Adler was dead. The only ones who knew otherwise were Irene and Sherlock, and they both preferred it that way.

Mycroft had been told the false story of her death and had in turn passed it on to John, and together they had chosen to tell Sherlock a lie about Irene having ended up in a witness protection program in America. Sherlock had never quite approved of their little lie, though could live with it as long as no one was the wiser of the truth.

The very last time he had seen Irene, she had pecked his cheek in gratitude and told him she would be in contact whenever she was in the mood for dinner. But for the past four years he hadn't heard as much as a syllable from her.

Sherlock knew it was the best solution for everyone involved, both friend and foe of _The woman_, but still a part of him longed to be challenged by her great mind once more. And another part sorely wanted to make sure she was still alive, for he hated the thought of not knowing. Sherlock knew she had an immense ability to protect herself, but that was something she had learned from a lifetime of getting herself into trouble.

Despite recent setbacks after the tumultuous case against Charles Augustus Magnussen, life in London went on in its merry ways for Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street with his best friend, his best friend's wife and their crime solving. There were the occasional intrigue in their detective adventures, but when the crime was solved it all faded into nothingness again. Sherlock sometimes felt trapped in a constant mental cage of boredoom. Things were simply not the same without the challenges of one of his intellectual matches and Sherlock found his thoughts drifted to distant memories more often than not when off a case.

Tonight, the night before the new year as it was, Sherlock sat in his armchair in his living room. The room was dark just as the night outside the window, except for a few candles lit on the mantlepiece behind him. They, however, offered more warmth than light. The darkness was void of noise, too, since the tune of his violin had died long ago. Now the instrument merely rested across his lap, seemingly forgotten by the man who wielded it.

Despite the dead calm of the night, there was an ever present show of vivid sounds and images inside Sherlock's head as he revisited those most vivid memories of his past this night.

"_Look at those cheekbones, I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"_

"_I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."_

"_I've never begged for mercy in my life."_

"_Twice."_

"_Mr Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"_

"_You just couldn't resist it, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangeorus disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."_

Alll the sudden, Sherlock was abruptly interrupted both by light and sound in the present world. A cold, flash of light illuminated the room from the table before him. The sudden light source hurt his eyes, and he closed them tight. At the very same time a familiar sound echoed in the darkness, one he hadn't heard for years. Still, he had heard the sound so often in the past, his ears immediately recognized it in delight. It was the sound of a woman's sensual moan. No, the man corrected himself as he opened his eyes and looked down at his cell phone on the table beside him, not _a_ woman. _T__he_ _woman_.

For a second, Sherlock didn't move. He felt... hesitant. For Sherlock, that was an unsual emotion. Finally, he stretched forward and picked up his cell phone before leaning back in his arm chair, the violin still clutched tight in his other hand. Sherlock stared down at the phone. He had a new text.

'Happy new year, Mr Holmes. Let's have dinner. – I.A.'

Sherlock did something he had only done once before; he sent her a reply.

'Let's.'

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><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	2. A dinner and a surprise

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: A dinner and a surprise<strong>

Sherlock shrugged his long cloak closer to his tall body to warm himself in the bitter chill of London. He stood just outside 221 B Baker Street, impatiently awaiting _The woman_. He still hadn't decided if the idea of having dinner with her was a good idea or a very, very terrible one. Either way, there was no point regretting it now.

With feigned interest he watched the common people around him on the streets, while secretively letting his gaze search for Irene's familiar form in the masses, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Sherlock glanced down at his wrist watch once more. _17:07_. He had never pictured Irene as being the kind of person who was even the slightest bit late for a meeting. Then again, he had never been able to fully comprehend the essence of her. The knowledge of which irked Sherlock to no end.

"It took the end of the world after all," a quite dark and ever so familiar voice sounded behind him. Sherlock silently cursed himself, for he had been so convinced she wouldn't be able to sneak up on him this time

He recollected himself and swiftly spun around, only to find himself face to face with none other than Irene Adler. She stood right in his personal space as it was, and Sherlock fought off the impulse to step back. He didn't want to give her any ideas.

Instead he stretched taller to make himself appear more at ease and in comfortable control, but to no avail. The piercing look in Irene's deep eyes made her stand as proud in mind, if not in height, as the consultant detective. Sherlock allowed himself to quickly take in her appearance in order to find clues of her life. He was all the more annoyed when her clothes and facial expression, as usual, told him very little about her.

As far as his mental image of her went, she looked just the same as he remembered her. She wore a simple cut, grey dress that hugged her thin frame in a flattering way and ended right above her knees. Over that she wore a pale trench coat to keep her warm, which ended an inch further down than her dress. Her long, brown hair was down and slightly curly, not up in one of her elaborate hair styles typical of her dominatrix days (something Sherlock had expected). Her lips were painted bold red, however, and there was a recognisable twinkle in her eyes with the color of an ocean storm.

He could smell her perfume clearly when she stood so close to him, and his nose recognised it from past days. That time, which now seemed so long ago, when she had invited herself into his house and slept in his bed he had for several nights afterwards fallen asleep to the very same scent on his pillow. He had tried to wash it out, but it had taken several attempts with John's "secret washing mixture" (that consisted of white vinegar and lemon juice) to succeed.

"What do you mean?" he asked quickly, in response to her first words.

A smile spread across her thin, redpainted lips, "Us having dinner, of course. The end of the world came and went without us having dinner."

The detective frowned down at her and though his mind was superior to most, he could not understand hers at this time. She noticed his confusion and her smile turned teasing. Sherlock suddenly had a mind to blow off their dinner and storm into his flat to sulk, but resisted that urge, too. His home wouldn't be empty anyway, with the "surprise party" John thought he was preparing without the detective's knowledge.

Irene's eyes travelled across his face briefly, as if reaquainting themselves with what they saw. "Since you've already fallen to your death and I've been beheaded most brutally, one could claim that the end of the world has come and gone for us."

"I see," he acknowledged her point but otherwise kept his face impassive.

"You look well, Mr Holmes."

"As do you, Ms Adler."

"It's been a long time."

"But I wonder if it was long enough."

"Time is relative, Mr Holmes. You of all people ought to know that today."

"Of course I am highly aware of Einstein's little theory of relativity. I don't believe me being in possession of this knowledge has any special importance today of all days."

"Except it is a new year today."

Sherlock huffed mockingly and shook his head as he turned his coat collar up. "New years… I don't much care for them. Or birthdays. One day every single year that people spend being stupidly sentimental about their lives, about what they've accomplished and what they claim to accomplish next year but never will. All the while dreading the fact that they'll be one year older and thus one year closer to death, but not taking into consideration the fact that life could end anytime. I could be run over by a bus tomorrow."

"I hear you're the type who prefers to fall off high buildings," the woman mused.

"Jump, actually. And yes, that, too, is an option," Sherlock said shortly. "Regardless, neither are options that ordinary people consider on new year's eve. They merely spend their day in a… bubble, making it out to be a special day when in fact it's just as humdrum as the other 364 days a year. The celebrations are plain silly."

"And still you agreed to dinner with me."

To this, the detective had no reply. Irene seemed to take his silence as proof of her having won something the man was sure he had not agreed to play. Instead, he raised an arm and pointed with his palm to the little café just beside the couple. "Shall we then?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she smirked and winked at Sherlock, who kept his face impassive as a response.

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><p>The dinner commenced with Sherlock and Irene's very own way of small talk. To an outsider it must have seemed like a sort of dance with words. Irene teased and flirted, while Sherlock side-stepped both of her tactics in order to try and deduce anything from her she didn't openly admit. When they were served their meals, it was the woman who broke their previous small talk by broaching a new topic.<p>

"I've read all about your little adventures on John's blog," she said casually, though Sherlock suspected there was nothing casual about her checking up on him. "I think it's sweet he still writes about you two and your little adventures. He so very much adores you, I believe. I do particularly like _The Empty Hearse_."

The man gazed up at the brunette, who in turn seemed focused on her own plate, though Sherlock saw a smile on her lowered face. For a second he tried to dissect what it meant, but coming up short he merely nodded.

"Yes. That's in my top twelve favorites of our adventures, too," he mused and thought back on the case in question. It had been his first case back in London and his so-called return to life, after having fooled the world of his death. He could still remember the look of complete shock and anger on John's face when he had appeared before the army doctor very much alive despite contrary belief. And that silly mustache!

"How did you do it?" Irene asked, her voice lower and all the more commanding. Sherlock could not help but wonder if it was a voice she had used regularly in the dominatrix business.

He cleared his throat and glanced about, "I constantly do a lot of things. More things than I keep count of, as a matter of fact. What _thing_ are you refering to this time?"

"You know what I mean," the woman's gaze was unrelenting and when the man's eyes finally met hers, it was as if two magnets had came in contact with their polar opposite sides. Sherlock found himself unable to look away, partially due to the challenge presented in her eyes. If he was to look away, he would admit defeat and with her, that was not an option.

"There's not much to tell," the tall man shrugged and noticed her disbelieving eyes. "Don't look at me that way. I'm sure it appeared I was in quite the bind with Moriarty, but it was all a matter of illusion. I simply made everyone believe in what they thought they had already seen. The tricky part wasn't to beat Moriarty and fake my death, the tricky part was staying hidden afterwards. Moriarty's henchmen are quite relentless, I assure you. I spent a great deal of time travelling to avoid losing what I had already pretended to have lost. I needed the time, too, to end his criminal network. Took me two years."

"Where did you go?" Irene asked and the man deduced a level of interest in her tone of voice she had not managed to conceal behind her cleverly built up walls.

"_Everywhere_," the detective smiled. "Germany, India, Mecca… and some other places of little importance."

"What made you return to London?" the woman asked and this time she made no attempt what so ever to keep her interest hidden. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, when she quickly raised her hand and placed her index finger against his lips to stop him. He was somewhat surprised by her gentle touch against his full lips and so simply faltered, letting his answer die out somewhere in his throat.

"Let me," she asked and lingered a moment before lowering her finger. "It was the thrill, wasn't it? The murder mystery waiting to be solved."

"_Partially_, yes. Initially, my brother needed help. He'd received word that there was an imminent terrorist attack that threatened London. He asked me to stop it. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson had left the flat untouched and I could move right back. John... he raised a little hell after I surprised him and revealed I wasn't dead. _Over_-reacted. Ultimately, returning to my old life was simple and yes, the thrill beckoned me home."

"I read the papers after your miraculous return to life and glory. I also read between the lines. You prided yourself on ending Moriarty's reign, but that self-praise soon stopped. Not a word uttered on the topic. And that was before his stint on the telly. I know why, of course. You believed Jim Moriarty was still alive long before the public did..." the woman deduced after a minute of silently examining her dinner companion. As she awaited his answer, Irene let her fingers play around the opening of her wine glass. Another subconsious move that portrayed her interest in the topic. Or him. Sherlock couldn't quite make out which one.

He smiled stiffly. "Now it's my turn to ask you a question."

"The answer is yes. You, _The virgin_, I would very much like to dominate in bed," she teased and her gaze was once more relentless.

"My question," the man ignored her offer, "is the same as yours. What made you return to London?"

There was a pause in their otherwise rapt conversation, in which the slim lady leaned back in her seat and watched the man opposite from her for a lengthy time without blinking even once. "Business," she replied at last and then smirked devilishly, "and some pleasure."

Sherlock mirrored her and leaned back in his own seat. The silence once more stretched out between them across the great abyss as they attempted to read the other. "I'm sorry your marriage didn't work, Ms Adler," he said in a low voice. "I noticed the tan line on your ring finger earlier".

"I know you did," Irene mused. "I didn't try to hide it, Mr. Holmes. …Someone sounds very jealous."

"Who? Certainly not me."

"Of course not…" the woman smiled teasingly and took a small, slow sip of her wine. When she sat her glass back down on the table, Sherlock noticed a slight shift in her behavior. It was very subtle, but to someone who spent such great effort trying to read her every move, the detective saw it as plain as if she had been attempting to spell it out for him. She had all the sudden raised another wall between them, though she masked this one behind a cold, yet stunning, look in her eyes, "And no need to take pity on me. I assure you, I shed no tears when I ran off on our honeymoon with his 'satchel of gold'. Some of that gold helped me return home."

"I had already figured out as much. That and the fact that your ex-hubby won't attempt to follow his little satchel, for you know a secret about him he's willing to sacrifice both his wife and gold for."

"You don't have to impress me, Mr Holmes. I already like you," Irene smiled and leaned forward while casually placing her hand atop of his, where it rested on Sherlock's end of the table. He glanced down at their hands inconspicuously but gave no remark. "How did you know?"

The man replied as he slowly raised his eyes from their hands. "I've seen you wield your power over meek men in the past, as you might recall. Your eyes got this glint to them back then. It's the same look I see in them now."

"Maybe that's just because I'm with you," she cooed seductively and the man glanced down as her hand began to gently stroke the top of his hand. The sensation of her fingers was something Sherlock was highly unaccustomed to. The physical response in his body was one he both wanted to experiment with in order to rationalize it and one he wanted to be rid of at once.

"Flattering," Sherlock said in a deadpan voice and boldly met Irene's eyes. "But it's not."

"You should never be so sure, Mr Holmes."

"I'm always sure, because I'm always right," the man said stubbornly; much like a child who refuses to behave as his parents tell him to, even though he knows it's the right thing to do.

"One day you won't be."

Sherlock frowned at her cryptic words. "But I am today."

"Yes," Irene finally admitted and all the sudden the warmth of her hand atop of his was gone. "Today you are right. Now… My stomach's full. Thank you for dinner, Mr Holmes. And Happy New year!"

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><p>The two stepped onto the dark streets of London once more as the clock around Sherlock's wrist turned 20:12. He grimaced to himself. With any luck the guests for the new year's eve party John and Mary were planning to surprise him with hadn't arrived yet. That would only further sour this evening.<p>

"So," Irene broke their moment of peace and stopped just outside 221B Baker street to gaze up at her date. "Now we've had dinner. Won't you invite a girl up for a drink? Or at the very least kiss a girl good night?"

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. "_No._ Good night, Ms Adler."

With that as his final words he turned around to walk up the steps to his own front door. At the same moment, two things happened very quickly. The first was that the man's keen ears acknowledged the screech of tires as a car suddenly came onto the small, otherwise empty, street. The car; a black Citroën C3, 2010 model, without number plates and – from the sound of it – a mild trouble with the exhaust pipe, came to a screeching halt next to 221 B Baker Street.

The second thing that happened was Irene's sudden movement, in which she grabbed hold of the man's right sleeve and pulled until he was forced to turn half-ways towards her. There was a frown upon her brow and the serene look he'd previously seen was completely erased. In her right hand rested a syringe which she stabbed into his arm before he had time to react.

Sherlock's mind reeled round and round, like a crazy ferris wheel with no stop. As the man tumbled to the ground, the brunette had been prepared for it and caught him to soften his fall. She leaned in close to his ear and whispered seductively, "Our date's not over yet… Mr Sherlock Holmes."

The last thing the man saw as the world around him swirled and faded in and out of different shades of black- beside Irene's wide, blue eyes- were two men clad in black suits, who stepped out of the car and roughly pulled him from her grip in order to toss him into the backseat. The detective landed in a heap across the seats and though he tried to fight the drug to stay conscious, he knew it was a losing battle.

He heard the engine roar to life and then everything turned black.

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><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	3. The party hat

__Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.__

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: The party hat<strong>

Sherlock's head felt as if it was filled with lead and somewhere at the back of his skull he heard a faint ringing noise. Slowly - oh, so very slowly - he felt his senses return, though it felt like he was kicking water to slowly go anywhere.

"Come on now, be a good boy for daddy, Sherlock. It's time to wakey-wakey," a distant voice hummed in a sing-song voice that immediately had the detective's cloudy attention.

He attempted to open his eyes, but they, too, felt like heavy weights. Finally he managed to crack one eye open and saw something he had now both dreaded and expected for over two years. He closed his eye once more to try and clear his head, before attempting to open both eyes again. He did and took in his surroundings.

Sherlock found himself tied to a chair in the middle of an empty, old basement that seemed quite large, at least twenty-five meters across. His sensitive nose picked up a distant smell: they were definitely close to water. He strained his ears to pick up any noise from the outside world and recognized several cars and a loud buzz of people. Only a heavy business district would still be so full of life and stress at such a late hour.

A door on the wall about ten meters to Sherlock's left was open and outside he see a backyard of some sort in the darkness of the winter night. An apartment complex perhaps. He quickly worked through the possibilities in his mind and finally decided he was close to Millwall's inner docks. Having deduced his whereabouts in just over a minute, Sherlock raised his head to gaze up at the figures ahead.

A few meters before him stood two large men, buffalo-sized almost, clad in suits and with matching faces of impassiveness. They seemed to be your average guard, or if you strained it: perhaps they could be henchmen of some sort. Sherlock recognized them easily as the two men who had thrown him into the car earlier.

The man frowned as he fought against the bonds of his sluggish thoughts. Had he not seen…? Surely he had.

He barely had time to register his own thought when a man, also dressed in a classic suit, jumped out from behind one of the massive guards. The complete look of mad joy shone in the man's eyes and Sherlock barely registered the bright, colored party hat atop of Moriarty's head.

"Surprise!" Moriarty shouted but the detective only managed a slow frown in response. When Sherlock didn't react any further, the criminal mastermind seemed visibly offended.

"Let's try it again," the man said and snuck behind the guard once more. A second later he jumped out just like the first time and enthusiastically repeated, "_Surprise_!"

"…Jim?" the groggy Sherlock managed.

Moriarty sighed and shrugged as he glanced between the two guards. "Not what I was looking for, but I'll take it. Yes, Sherlock. It's me... Miss me?"

"Not very much," the dark-haired man muttered and shook his head to clear it. He hated not being able to think clearly. It meant his greatest weapon was useless. If the cloudiness of his mind was because of whatever drug he had been given, or from a later received blow, Sherlock couldn't quite deduce.

"I missed you a lot, Sherlock," Moriarty pointed out and strolled up to the man's chair before crouching down before him. "These past few years I've only met more _ordinary people_,"- he said the last part in his own unique voice of mockery, -"…_Boring!_ Being around idiots for a long time makes me long for my own company. And there's only two of me, as you know. ...Of course, Ms. Adler is quite extraordinary herself, though I'm not quite sure how to define her. Is she ordinary, Sherlock?"

The detective shook his head and focused his eyes on his nemesis' soulless ones. "That's not the word I'd use to describe her, no."

"No, I didn't think so either. She's more like you and I," Moriarty smiled distantly and his gaze intensely searched Sherlock's face in a way the detective didn't fully understand. Suddenly, the mad man jumped up from his crouched position with a wide grin on his face. "Oh! I almost forgot! This is for you!"

From his head, Moriarty removed the sparkling party-hat in the shape of a traffic cone and placed it atop of Sherlock's head. He snapped the thin, rubber band beneath the man's chin - Sherlock drew a sharp breath - and then stepped back to inspect his art. "Simply adorable. This needs to be documented. It's not every year you get to celebrate new year with the world's baddest villain, is it?"

Before the detective could comment, the mad man had whipped a small camera from his pocket and snapped two pictures; one of Sherlock alone with the party-hat, and one where Moriarty leaned in and photographed them both together.

"I'll email them to you," the criminal promised as he pocketed the camera.

"Thanks. What do you want this time, Moriarty?" Holmes asked as he attempted to free himself from the ropes.

"Oh, that won't be any good," the other said upon noticing the effort. "Ms Adler tied the knots, and she's the master of those after her _dominating experience._ I dare say, she never did tie a knot I managed to undo…"

"What do you want?" Sherlock repeated gruffly.

"A bit testy today, are we? Is this the thanks I get for setting up such a special surprise for you?" Moriarty sulked. "First, Sherlock, I must say I'm a little disappointed in you. You're getting as careless as dear Dr Watson. I think he's simplicity is a bad influence on your mind. I thought you knew better than to be deceived by a beautiful woman."

"You sound jealous," Sherlock pointed out and relaxed his hands. Moriarty was right, his attempts to loosen the ropes weren't working. He would have to think of another way to escape.

"Maybe just a little," the criminal shrugged with a feline-like grin. The man took a step back and tilted his head to the side as he inspected his catch of the day. "I'm glad you weren't surprised to see me return, Sherlock. Means I didn't underestimate you."

"_That_ would have been a shame," the detective agreed. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"No. Yes. Maybe. _Eventually_... I haven't made up my mind yet," Moriarty admitted and Sherlock knew the mad man meant it. The detective didn't trust his enemy in any way, having faced the criminal's unstable mind and changeable nature before.

"Well, could you please stop hesitating and just make up your mind?" he pushed on, hoping to throw Moriarty off-course.

"Patience never was your strong side, Sherlock," the suit-clad man mused. Sherlock saw a shadow cross Moriarty's face and knew what part of the villain would come next. With a simple wave of the hand, the man dismissed his guards. Their steps echoed in the empty basement as they walked through the door that led out to the backyard and closed it behind them. Silence lingered for a second in their wake. Moriarty casually put both hands in his pockets and rocked from heel to toe once as he gazed down at the detective.

"I just wanted to say happy new year, Sherlock. And give you a new year's resolution; _Me_! I'm back, baby. Not that I ever was gone. ...Did you like the touch with the fake blood as I shot my brain to pieces? When did you realize I had tricked you?"

"When did _you_ realize _I_ had tricked you?" the Holmes boy countered.

"It took awhile, I admit," Moriarty said with a sad nod. "I reckon there were no winners on the roof that time, Sherlock. We both thought we had won and lived while the other died, of course, but alas! ...I brought you here to make my resolution very clear. Next time I strike, I won't leave anything to chance. You have my word on that."

"I highly doubt that," Sherlock said, his own voice low and lethal. "The past suggests otherwise."

"_Oh_!" the criminal smiled and bounced on the spot in joy. "A challenge? I do love a good challenge. _I missed this_, Sherlock! You and I. Our little _friendly_ competition. But to be clear… I do fully intend to live up to my word. Remember our past conversations, Sherlock?"

"_I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock – just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world."_

"_Take this as a friendly warning, my dear… Back off."_

"_People have died."_

"_That's what people DO!"_

"_If you don't stop trying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you…"_

"_I've been badly informed I don't have one."_

"_But we both know that's not true." _

"_You're friends will die if you don't."_

"_You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."_

"_I may be on the side of the angels. But don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

"_No, you're not. I see… You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you!... Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you… As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You got away. Well, good luck with that…"_

Sherlock grimaced as the last memory filled his mind and remembered how stunned he had been when the criminal had pulled out the gun and shot himself, all in order to win. Well, pretended to, at least. "Vividly."

"Good. Be assured that this time, things will be _different_. I'll show you a display of epic proportions you couldn't even dream of back in the old days. I'll give you fires no water can quench... I'll give you the ultimate test, and you shall brutally lose."

"I've beaten you at all your games so far, I'd say my chances are good."

The door to the basement squeaked and both men turned as it opened.

"I thought my orders were clear; '_Do not distu_-" Moriarty begun but stopped as Irene Adler stepped into the light, still dressed in her dress and coat. Sherlock frowned mercilessly in her direction. She, in turn, merely stopped in the open doorway and awaited the criminal. "Oh, it's you... Come on in, Ms Adler."

The hollow clicks of _The woman'_s heels echoed against the concrete floor as she strolled over to the two men caught up in their little game. Moriarty tilted his head to the side once more as she came to a halt right beside him and gazed from her down to the detective.

"A pretty sight, isn't it? The party hat suits him perfectly. Thank you, my dear, for helping me pull off this little surprise."

"My pleasure," Irene cooed with a cold smile and her gaze didn't fear to meet Moriarty's head on.

The criminal chortled. "She's pure fire, isn't she, Sherlock? Only ice could kill this one."

Irene and Sherlock shared a glance. The woman quickly turned back to the criminal beside her. "I just came back to see this sight one last time: Sherlock Holmes, tied to a chair. I believe I've seen this picture in my dreams quite a few times."

Moriarty smirked at her words and the detective let his gaze travel between the two. There was something off, Sherlock noticed it instantly. He couldn't quite deduce what at first, but then he recognized the look in the woman's eyes as one he had seen before. The moment when the agents had barged in on them at her house in Belgravia and Sherlock and Irene had wordlessly cooperated in order to bring the agents down. Her pale eyes now spoke the very same silent language to him, and the detective narrowed his eyes in an attempt to understand.

"Oh! Before I forget. …There was one more thing, Jim," the brunette's gaze shifted from the detective to her former partner once more.

"Yes, Ms Adler?"

"_This_," she waved a hand in the general direction of Sherlock's tied-up form, "makes us even." Moriarty nodded in agreement. Irene then moved so hastily that neither man fully had time to comprehend what occurred.

The detective saw her draw the syringe from her coat pocket and stick it into the criminal's upper arm with the speed of a cheetah. The needle was still half-full with the drug she had injected into Sherlock's arm earlier. Now, the woman injected the last into Moriarty's blood stream. The look of complete surprise on the mad man's face was nothing compared to the confusion in the detective's frown as he sat, unable to do anything, upon the chair.

"This, however," she whispered as Moriarty stumbled and clung to her thin frame. The criminal gasped slightly for air as he sunk onto his knees, keeping a firm hold of Irene's coat as he did. The woman slowly leaned closed and continued, "_This,_ I do as a free woman, at last."

With a snarling sound, Jim fell to the ground unconscious. The ex-dominatrix stood above him for a moment as a lioness would hover over its prey. She hastily turned to Sherlock who watched her with wide, unblinking eyes. As if remembering herself, Irene quickly jumped into action and hurried around his chair to untie the knots that still held the detective in place.

"Are you going to explain this?" Sherlock asked and glanced down at Moriarty's still body.

"We only have two minutes," she breathed and the detective heard the unmistakable sound of a pocket knife being swiped open. "It's quicker this way," she explained.

"What happens in two minutes?" the dark-haired man asked as he felt the ropes start to loosen behind his back.

"I'm not sure what comes first. Your darling brother with an entire entourage of brainless policemen or Moriarty's henchmen realize he's down for the count and come to claim blood. Either way, I can't stay around. There! You're free."

Sherlock shrugged out of the ropes and rose in one fluid motion. He staggered once as a short wave of dizziness washed over him, reminding him of the drugs still in his system. He turned around and gazed down at the woman, who stared him down relentlessly. There was a slight shiver of fear in her eyes for half a second, before she managed to cover it up behind her bold facade, but Sherlock had noticed it. The detective contemplated his options for a second and then nodded, "What's the plan?"

"Back door. I've already taken care of Moriarty's _puppies_," Irene explained and took a step forward. The man grabbed hold of her pale sleeve and stopped her mid-step.

"Wait. What about his hidden snipers. How do you propose we get past them?"

"Please, Mr Holmes," the woman looked up at him as if he had just declared her stupid and tugged her sleeve out of his grasp. Sherlock wondered what had been so offensive about it and watched her hesitantly. "That's the simple part. Moriarty ordered them not to shoot you until _he_ gave the order. And he won't be giving any such order now, will he?"

Sherlock raised his chin in slight admiration at the woman before him. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, "You don't have to impress me, Ms Adler."

He noticed how her pupils dilated as a devious smirk spread across her lips. "I know. Let's go. I have a car waiting round back."

* * *

><p>John awoke with a start as he heard the front door slam shut downstairs. Silently, he cursed to himself. <em>05:01. <em>If that was Sherlock returning home after doing whatever it was Sherlock did when he didn't want anyone to know… So help him, John would be furious. The detective had earlier the same week told John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson he didn't want any party on new year, so obviously they had planned a surprise behind his back.

Needless to say, everyone who'd been invited, though few they had been, had been disappointed when the man hadn't appeared at all. The most likely explanation was that their friend had learned of their plans and stayed out to purposely spoil it. John had sworn to to his wife that he'd find some way to get back at his friend for having to apologize to the guests as they left the party shortly after midnight, the party feeling quite gone from them all.

The doctor had decided to spend the night in his old room, as he sometimes did these days when working a difficult case, in order to give the good detective a verbal beating the next day. Now, he stumbled out of his bed, still drunk from sleep, in the middle of the night and staggered down the steps to the living room. He switched on the lights and sure enough: in the middle of the homily room stood Sherlock Holmes, dressed in his telltale cloak and favorite scarf.

"_What the_- It's after five, Sherlock! Did you just get in? Where the bloody hell were you? You know about the party, didn't... " John's anger trailed off as he noticed another shape walk up the stairs from the front door. The slim form of a very familiar person of their past. A person, _a woman_, the blond man thought had died several years earlier. "What is _she_ doing here?"

"It's nice to see you again, Mr Watson," the beauty smirked at the army doctor, something which only increased John's annoyance.

"I wish I could say the feeling's mutual. _What the hell is going on here_?"

"John," Sherlock said in a slow, low voice and glanced back at the woman. He then turned to his dearest friend. "Stop asking questions."

"Like hell I will!" the other man practically shouted and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, as if that simple move would make the ex-dominatrix disappear from the living room. It didn't. "I demand answers! Jesus, Sherlock... What happened? And why are you wearing _a party hat_?"

"Moriarty's back," the tall man explained shortly and with a tone that suggested John had better not ask anything more about that now. The great detective turned around as he pulled off the party hat in one swift movement and threw it atop his arm chair. He then proceeded to walk up to the window and look outside, turning his back on the conversation in the living room both mentally as well as physically.

John cursed, "Dammit. I hoped it was all fake... Now, what about _her_?"

At this, Sherlock glanced back at the woman who had thrown her coat on top of one arm chair and sunk into the other one. Her eyes were still bold and daring as she met his gaze full on. The other man watched the simple exchange and stood in utter confusion.

"Ms. Adler is staying awhile," the dark voice of the detective said at length.

"She's _what?_ Just yesterday, I thought she was _dead_, Sherlock! That is to say…" John haltered as his tired mind finally remembered Mycroft's lie. "… dead as in… stuck in a witness program-"

"I know my brother's elaborate lie, John."

"You've known all along, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"That still doesn't explain how she's alive, and in our living room."

"It's simple, Mr Watson," Irene offered. "I had a terrible executioner."

"You mean-" the blond man began and pointed his finger in his friend's direction. The brunette merely smiled in reply. "Another faked death, huh? Sherlock... You should have told me."

"I know, John," the man smiled stiffly at his tired friend. "Could we save all the questions for tomorrow though? I could need to sleep off this drug."

"You drugged him again, didn't you?" the doctor asked the ex-dominatrix in a condescending tone of voice. "Of course. Brilliant. Sod this. I'll see you… _both_ tomorrow. I… Fine. Good night. Now I'm going back to sleep. Or I'll at least try to."

With those words, John turned around and walked back up towards his bedroom, muttering all the way until both Irene and Sherlock heard his door slam shut. The silence stretched on in the living room like a comforting blanket, the first moment of peace both of them had experienced in awhile now.

The detective remained with his back to the woman in the room, as he looked out at the street in front of Baker Street. His sight, however, was directed inwards and stuck in memories, attempting to clear some of the recent events up. This had undoubtedly been one of the most memorable new years. Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric as Irene stood from the arm chair.

Suddenly he felt something hard and round press down gently atop his head and glanced down at the shorter woman.

"...Happy new year, Mr Holmes," she whispered and pecked his cheek. The man remained stoic as she let go of him and disappeared out of his line of sight.

Maybe this one was the _most_ memorable, after all, Sherlock contemplated and sighed as he pulled the party hat from his head and gazed down at the paper object. Funny how such a small thing, such an insignificant trifle meant to lift the spirit of all (drunk) celebrating people, only served to further darken his gloom.

He turned around only to be met with an empty room. For a short second, the tall man did nothing. At last, he walked up to the mantle piece, thoughtfully placed the party hat atop of his skull and sighed in resignation.

He turned off the lamps and strolled the short way to his bedroom and opened the door. He faltered just inside, hand still on the door handle, as he gazed down at his bed. On the right side of the bed, furthest away from the entrance, rested the woman already. Irene's back was towards him and her breaths seemed slow and even, though Sherlock knew she wasn't actually asleep.

Regardless, there was something about the peaceful sight that diminished whatever words of protest the detective could have used to throw her out. Instead, Sherlock silently shut the door and shrugged out of his coat. His legs felt old and tired as he sunk onto the edge of the bed, as his head still swirled in a cloudy haze. Without much difficulty, the man crawled beneath the covers and let the intoxicating spell of sleep slowly pull him into the world of dreams.

"Good night, Ms Adler."

"Good night."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued<em>


	4. Sherlock's payback

__Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.__

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Sherlock's payback<strong>

"I find it adorable."

John looked up from the newspaper in his hands and glanced over at Irene at the short end of the table, where she sat dressed in one of Sherlock's pajamas pants and shirts that seemed like a fashionable tent on her slim body. The blond man took a second to ponder the sight. An attractive woman in Sherlock Holmes' pj's who was enjoying a quite breakfast at 22 1B Baker Street. He'd had never expected to see this day, unless either in a dream or during an acid trip. Neither of which had seemed very likely.

Opposite John around the small table, sat the detective thoroughly engrossed in his part of the paper as if there was nothing odd about their little arrangement this morning. John didn't quite know how to approach the subject of the ex-dominatrix in his flat when the great detective himself seemed so keen to ignore it.

"What? What's adorable?" he asked at length when it was obvious Sherlock wasn't paying attention.

The brunette took a sip from her cup of steaming coffee and leaned back in her chair with a feline smirk upon her thin lips. "That you and Sherlock still live together. You _are_ quite the couple, aren't you?"

"We're not!" John sighed.

"I believe we've had this discussion before," the woman cooed in her low, daring voice and the doctor saw her grin widen behind the rim of her cup.

"Regardless, your observation is inaccurate," Sherlock's deep voice sounded and the other two turned their heads to gaze at him. The great detective didn't even bother to raise his gaze from the paper as he continued, "John is married to Mary Morstan - who's not exactly what she seems, but we'll get to that later - and living in a flat quite far from here. They're also having a baby in a few months. The distance means it's sometimes easier for John to stay here at Baker Street when we're working a particularly difficult case and I need him close."

"Moved out? _Married_? Pregnant? Surely not," Irene breathed and genuine disbelief touched the edge of her voice. "Breaking up your duo?"

Sherlock hummed in disagreement. "Not quite. Mary is quite understanding of our profession, I _assure_. She's not too stupid, either."

"Oh, what a compliment!" John exclaimed, half in mockery, half in truth. "I'll be sure to pass it on to her later."

"Please don't. Flattery is the means to end compassion in the human nature."

"And yet, you seem to crave it," the blond man pointed out and sighed as he turned back to his breakfast. "Fine… _Fine_. Ms Adler, could you pass me the sports pages, please, and while you're at it – _Could somebody please tell me what happened yesterday?_!"

Sherlock barely reacted to John's sudden tantrum, and merely held up his coffee cup in Irene's general direction. "Please, do tell, Ms Adler. Pass the sugar before you do."

The brunette smiled and pushed the bowl of sugar over to the man as the other snatched the sports pages from her. The woman leaned back and shrugged innocently, though the feigned emotion fooled neither man. It only made her seem all the more guilty, like the child who's stolen cookies from her mother and then can't face the confrontation. "What's there to tell?"

"How about starting with... I don't know, your little encounter with the terrorists in Pakistan?!"

"Oh, do keep up, John!" the detective said in deep annoyance, as if blaming his friend's poor confusion for not having been present that faithful day. The fact that Sherlock himself had acted clandestine seemed irrelevant to the detective. "Her death was highly exaggerated, as you can see. I followed her to the terrorist cell and stopped them from beheading her. She ran, I thoroughly covered up all traces of my affiliation and let Mycroft believe the lie I wanted him to believe. Seriously, John. Do at least _try_ to keep up, if you can."

"Okay…" the other man said slowly as he tried to process the implication of what he had just been told. "Why?"

"Because I love playing with my brother's mind," the detective sighed as he placed his paper down upon the table top and leaned his elbows atop of it. Impatiently, Sherlock raised his eyebrows, expecting the question that was so clearly written in John's pale eyes.

The doctor shook his head, "No. I meant, why did you save her?"

"We're asking Ms Adler questions here. Stay on track and stop delaying this time, John." With those words, he turned his head in Irene's direction.

For a second he said nothing, though John thought he saw something in the man's pale eyes brace itself. It seemed the great detective mentally prepared himself to read the woman beside them. The blond man thought it odd, for he had never seen him actually make an effort to be able to read anyone ever. It always seemed too simple for Sherlock Holmes to read even the most intimate of secrets from just a mere glance.

At length, the dark-haired man simply commanded, "Explain it to me."

"Explain what?" the woman asked in played ignorance as her eyes boldly met his in yet another duel of gazes.

"_Everything_. Why you're here. How you came here. Why you looked for me. Why you conspired with Moriarty only to turn on him and save me. _Everything_."

The brunette sat in silence for a minute, in which John could see Sherlock's patience wear thin. The doctor noticed how the muscles on his friend's neck strained against his skin and there was something haunting about the man's unblinking eyes. For a brief second, John wondered if he'd need to find some medication in case the man had a stress-related heart attack.

At length, the woman leaned forward over the table, so slowly John was unsure whether she was attempting to seduce or further irritate the detective.

Her eyes danced with glee as her face stopped about a foot from Sherlock's. "Tell you all _that_ and spoil your little fun? You know you want to figure it out for yourself."

The detective leaned closer until there weren't many inches separating their faces. The doctor rolled his eyes at this little dance of theirs. "Stop teasing and at least explain your involvement yesterday."

Irene disregarded the blunt command and continued to play with the detective, "It's quite simple, Mr Holmes. You must have already figured it out. I'd prefer to hear your theory."

Sherlock inhaled quickly and John knew what was coming next. What followed was a very fast run-through of the man's skills of deduction. The words seemed to pour from his mouth in the same pace a computer can process information, "Two years ago, while still in good favor with the British government, you and Moriarty did business. You played a game together. But you, Ms Adler, lost most brutally. There was however, still a score to settle with the criminal, you still owed him something. I expect Moriarty isn't the type of business partner who forgives and forgets a good deal. He contacted you recently, asked you to play a pawn in his new game and that you help kidnap me on New Year's Eve. You had no choice but to accept and return to London, of course. … _But:_ You owe me more for saving your life. Being the clever woman you are, you saw a chance to repay both your debts in one excellent hand. Though, I dare say you and I are still not even."

Irene gazed intently at the man, like a predator might eye it's prey, or a lover might gaze upon her companion. With _The woman_, there was always a thin line between those two options, "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"

John cleared his throat awkwardly as the detective ignored the sexual innuendo by saying, "You're not safe, Ms Adler. He'll consider you his enemy now. And, with the exception of myself, Moriarty's enemies don't tend to live long. You'll need protection."

The brunette smiled. "You've obviously already thought about that, too."

"You can't go public," Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly. "I hardly see my brother or the government allowing you to become a public figure once more. When they learn you've returned to life, they'll consider you a dangerous threat like last time. You should remain underground, at least for the time being."

John caught onto where the conversation was going and interrupted before, "Hold on. You want her to stay _here_ - with you - at Baker Street then?"

"It's the only plausible way," the dark-haired man nodded.

The other merely frowned. "Only plausible…? You don't owe her anything, Sherlock! Remember _why_ the government and your brother aren't fans of Ms Adler?"

"How could I forget?" the stoic look in Sherlock's eyes spoke volumes of his lack of amusement that his friend even remotely had suggested he had missed a vital piece of information."But things are different now. She's stripped of her powers this time."

"I didn't mean that, Sherlock. I meant that she's… on _the other side_."

This time, it was the woman who interrupted sharply, "If you mean to imply that I'm _bad_, Mr Watson, I believe you are very right. But if you're insinuating I'm evil, I suggest you try again… I'm not evil, I'm just not a very good girl either."

"You had incriminating photographs of people in high places," the blond man protested loudly.

Irene gave the short man a scolding look. "For my own protection. Not to use for the greater evil."

"She's not lying, John. I understand your worry, but I assure you-"

"Alright…" the blond sighed and raised both hands into the air as if to signal defeat. "But she's your responsibility. I don't live here anymore and I won't help you harbor a fugitive. You have to take care of her, you know. Make sure she eats and pick up after her and all that. This isn't shared custody."

Irene cooed, "And do make sure to take your… _dog_ out for exercise now and again."

John quickly rose from the chair, growing tired of the tension and electricity between the other two. It was just like four years ago, though perhaps John detected a slight reservation between them that hadn't been there last time. He couldn't be sure though, for both Sherlock and Irene seemed rather stellar at hiding their feelings and rather seemed to enjoy their little dance around the other.

Truthfully, the doctor wasn't thrilled _The woman _would be staying at Baker Street. For all John cared and remembered, Irene Adler was dubious and of quite questionable nature. And if anyone would be affected by her teasing presence, it would clearly be Sherlock, who'd certainly behaved as peculiar as John had ever seen him upon hearing the news of her believed (though later proved to be faked) death in the past. John still didn't comprehend just what his friend's behavior back then had meant, or even if Sherlock himself knew.

For now, the blond man was simply pissed that he would have to spend further effort trying to keep his friend safe while not grasping the complex dynamism that was Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.

"Coffee, anyone? Coffee?" John cleared his throat and held out the kettle in an attempt to disturb the tense moment.

"Ms Adler will have some more," Sherlock said and the other man quickly poured her some. With a gentle shove, the dark-haired man pushed the sugar bowl back to Irene and then turned back to his newspaper as if their little discussion had never taken place at all. The brunette smirked as she put two pieces of sugar in her cup and proceeded to sip her coffee in great ease.

John looked between the two and eventually turned his back to them with a deep sigh, muttering somewhat about "impossible people".

* * *

><p>Not an hour later, the door bell rang at 221 B Baker Street. When neither Sherlock nor Irene reacted, John walked down the stairs and opened. Outside stood Lestrade with a friendly smile and with a heavy coat to protect him from the winter chill.<p>

"How's it going, Greg?" the doctor asked with a friendly smile as the two men climbed the stairs up to the flat.

"Good, thanks, John," the grey-haired man smiled back. "I have a new case… I thought it could use Sherlock's expertise."

Lestrade stopped short in the living room upon noticing the detective and the mysterious woman in there. Sherlock, still clad in pj's and robe, sat behind his desk and the computer. Despite the police's presence, he had not looked up from whatever he was doing on the laptop. Across the room, in the leather arm chair, sat the woman, with her back against one of the armrests and legs dangling over the other. A book by Arthur Conan Doyle lay forgotten in her lap and her gaze seemed lost looking out the window. Lestrade cleared his throat and glanced between the men.

"How you doing, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade," the man greeted in a dull tone.

The police man cleared his throat once more as he brushed off imaginary dust from his coat, ran a hand through his hair and slowly made his way over to the woman. Irene didn't turn her head in the inspector's direction until he stood right beside her chair. From his position still in the open doorway, John noted her eyes seemed almost lifeless instead of being filled with their usual air of mischief.

"I'm… Greg. Lestrade. Greg will do fine," Lestrade stumbled over his words and awkwardly reached out a hand towards her.

The brunette smiled back tiredly and shook the man's hand. "I'm Sherlock's friend."

"No, she's not," the dark-haired man retorted without missing a beat.

"O-Oh…_Oh._" Lestrade managed with a nod and quickly took a step back. "That's just dandy."

John frowned from the door way at the man's fumbling words and mouthed to himself, '_Just dandy_?'.

"What's it about?" Sherlock asked then. His voice seemed to pull Lestrade out of his awkward mess and the man whirled around to face the consultant detective with wide eyes.

"What?" the grey-haired man asked.

The detective sighed and finally glanced up from his laptop. "You said there was a case."

"Oh. I did. Yes," Lestrade cleared his throat once more and walked over to the desk and Holmes. "It's about a missing boy. His parents reported him missing from his home this morning. The mystery is that there are no signs at all to explain his absence. There are no reports that suggest he left the house, and anyway, he wouldn't be able to. The family lives in the woods and the kid's in a wheelchair."

"How long has it been missing?"

"Eh, _he _has been gone since yesterday night, the parents presume. They found him missing when they awoke this morning, and called the cops as soon as they realized he was nowhere to be found."

"Of course they did," the dark-haired man closed the laptop and jumped out of his seat, as if suddenly filled with new energy. There was a stiff grin on his lips as he nodded, "It doesn't sound promising, Lestrade, but it will do."

"Sounds like fun," Irene said in a distracted voice from her seat.

Sherlock glanced down at his wrist watch and then locked gazes with her, "Oh, you're not coming with."

John nodded in agreement. "Sherlock's right. I thought we just discussed this. Ixnay on the going out, remember?"

The woman met the detective's gaze with a frown and blinked slowly. She shook her head once as if to clear it. "… No. That's not what he meant. Mr Holmes?"

"Yes?" the man replied in mock innocence, and now even John knew the detective was up to something mischievous of his own. Lestrade stood to the side watching the scene play out before him with nothing but confusion written on his features.

"What…" Irene asked as she attempted to stand up from the chair without success. She slumped back into the seat and seemed drained of all physical power. She blinked repeatedly with heavy eyelids. As she continued her words slurred, "…did you put in the sugar?"

"What, for the coffee? That's absurd. Sherlock had sugar in his coffee, too. I saw it," John argued, though a part of him wondered if he was defending a guilty man as it was.

The brunette shook her head and leaned back in the seat, as if powerless to even sit up straight. "No, we saw him _ask_ for it. He asked while you and I talked, taking advantage of that distraction and we naturally assumed that he had taken some sugar, when in fact he never did. What was in the sugar, Sherlock Holmes?"

"A thank you. For your _intoxicating_ present yesterday," the man remarked in a deep, teasing whisper as he walked over to the drugged woman in the armchair. "I thought it more fun though to try something slow working, though."

Sherlock firmly tugged on the woman's arms and helped her stand up before him. Her hand gripped his maroon robe until John could see her knuckles turn white from the effort. Even as she stumbled, she managed a tired, furious frown upon her fine brow. "Why you-"

"_You're welcome_. I suggest we get you to bed before the drug fully kicks in. You'll be out a _long_ time. No worries, you'll be just fine tomorrow, though, when you've slept it off," Sherlock said in a cruel tone of victory and had barely finished his sentence as the woman slumped over. The man had been prepared and caught her in his strong arms, holding her upright against his firm chest as he did. Her head hung limp to the side and she was clearly out cold.

"My God, is she alright?" Lestrade breathed but found himself so dumbfounded he didn't know how to react.

"Just dandy," the detective remarked shortly.

John and Lestrade watched with matching confusion as Sherlock lifted the slim woman into his arms and disappeared out of the living room in the direction of his bedroom.

As soon as Sherlock was out of view, Lestrade turned to the blond man. "What… just happened?"

The doctor sighed. "Don't really know. Don't really care."

"Are they… is she… Are they a couple of some sort?" the grey-haired inspector asked.

"Honestly? I don't know."

A few minutes later, Sherlock re-entered the living room in swift, long strides. In the short time period, he had managed to change into a simple suit and thrown on his coat atop. The detective passed the other men in the living room just as he put his scarf on around his neck.

"I lied," the man called as he began his descent down the stairs. "She won't be out for long, we didn't have anything strong to mix a concoction of at home this morning. Maybe I should to ask Mrs Hudson to get some things in case of future events. Either way, she'll only be out 'til five o'clock latest. Which means we have a deadline to solve this case before then. _Quickly_ _now_!"

As he finished the sentence, Sherlock Holmes had already pulled the front door open and stepped outside onto the streets of London.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued<em>


	5. The temptress

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: The temptress<strong>

Just after four o'clock, Sherlock opened the door to 221 B Baker Street once more and stepped inside with a grim look upon his face.

"That… was boring," he stated in a dull voice as he pulled off his scarf and swiftly hurried up the stairs taking two steps at a time.

John, who had payed their Hackney carriage, entered a minute afterwards and shut the front door behind them. "If I didn't know you, I wouldn't believe how you solved it so quickly."

"_Oh, please_," the detective moaned from upstairs. "Quickly? I'm surprised it took me so long. It was so obvious the mother was guilty, after all."

The blond man shook his head as he ascended the stairs while muttering, "You keep saying that, but I still don't believe you."

"_Did you not see the pleats on her skirts? _She was obviously _not_ the boy's real mother, the boy was rather the result of the father's obvious affair with his secretary, who died unexpectedly years ago and the man couldn't abandon the baby so took it in. He forced his wife to live the lie and after all these years she had grown to disdain her husband, the boy and how the whole deal forced itself upon her life, until she couldn't take it anymore."

John stood opposite his friend in the living room, a look of '_are you kidding me?'_ plainly written across his worn face. This, however, the dark-haired man didn't seem to notice as he walked to and fro in the center of the room.

"You read all that _and_ that the mother hired someone to kill her son and covered it up by pretending the boy had disappeared, from the _pleats on her skirt_?"

"It was plain for anyone to see, all you had to do was _observe_," Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes at the simplicity of his friend's mind.

There were days, though they were few, that Sherlock wondered just what potential he had ever seen in John's feeble mind. Those were the very same days the consultant detective wished for a better intellectual match. As if remembering himself, the man suddenly stepped out of the living room and walked past the small kitchen.

John remained in the awkward silence that always lingered in one way or the other after Sherlock Holmes declared the doctor stupid. He soon stepped after the other man, however, in dire curiosity to learn just how the smarter man had gotten the whole picture and a confession out of the mother in less than five hours. The blond man was by now used to never following his friend's train of thought, but was still always as curious to try.

John stepped through the narrow hallway and into Sherlock's bedroom, following in his friends footsteps.

At the foot end of the bed, the dark-haired man stood with an unreadable look upon his impassive face. Whatever contentment the man had felt over the solved case seemed now wiped from his expression as if never having been present. The doctor couldn't help but frown at the sudden change and followed Sherlock's gaze to the empty bed in an attempt to understand.

The light bulb went off for the doctor. "She's not here. Oh God. You didn't throw her out the window earlier, did you?"

"Of course not. Though I was tempted."

"Where is she?"

"Not here," the detective pointed out dryly and shrugged his eyebrows mockingly.

John rolled his eyes and took a calming breath in order to let the irritation subside. With clenched teeth, he said at length, "I have _observed_ that, Sherlock. Where is she then?"

"Out."

The short man shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he tried to understand the sudden shortness in his friend's deep voice. "… You don't know where she is, do you?"

Sherlock sighed and glared at the doctor. "You will never hear me repeat these words and if you do, please feel free to put a bullet between my eyes – _Not a clue_."

"That _is_ a new one," John said and suddenly felt in a much more cheerful mood. Maybe having Irene Adler around wasn't so bad after all, since it obviously threw Sherlock off his high horse once in awhile.

"Yes," the detective agreed. "The words tasted stale on my tongue. Let it be our little secret."

The blond man shook his head in amusement and crossed his arms over his chest. "You think I'm going to be able to keep it a secret that _you_, the great Sherlock Holmes, who knows everything and can deduce just about anything, doesn't know _this_?"

"_John_…"

The doctor merely shook his head as the irritation in his friend's eyes grew to epic proportions. "You seriously think I'd tell Irene Adler and give her the satisfaction?"

"Thank you."

"Besides, we all have our bad days."

"I don't."

"Well..." John disagreed. "Maybe you do."

The muscles in the dark-haired man's strong jaw flexed in grim annoyance. "_No. I don't_."

"My silence is gonna cost you, though."

"Name your price."

John shrugged and decided to milk it. He had, after all, never quite heard his friend admit to being as dumbstruck as he did now in Irene's wake. And though the same notion seemed to irk Sherlock in a way not even Moriarty had, John would still have some fun on the smarter man's expense. "Haven't decided on one, yet. I'll let you know when I do."

The other man was still anything but amused as he glared at his friend. "You're enjoying this far too much, John. It doesn't suit you."

"_Ah_!" the woman's voice sounded from the small, narrow hallway and John turned his head as the misbehaving woman in question joined the two men in the bedroom. She wore her coat and grey dress from the day before and in her hand rested two bags of sizable proportions.

"Is this a _ménage á trois_?" Irene asked amused, though the doctor still detected an air of tiredness in her tone. She tossed the bags onto the large bed and looked from one man to the other, smirking widely once more, as she cocked her hip to one side in a demonstrative show of sensual amusement.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked in a restrained voice.

The brunette's smirk grew as she walked over to the bed and sunk onto the covers. John didn't need his medical knowledge to read the fatigue in her body language as she moved to remove her heels. Regardless whatever remnants of the drug in her system, the ex-dominatrix wasn't about to admit to being presently in a weakened state. Having pulled off both shoes, Irene turned and gazed up at the consultant detective once more. "Out."

"See," Sherlock said and turned to his friend. There was a smile on the taller man's face that was half triumphant and half grim. John couldn't quite understand either of it. "I told you so."

The doctor glared at the detective before turning back to the woman on the bed. "I thought we agreed you should stay at the flat? Why did you go out?"

"To misbehave," Irene cooed in a seductive tone and leaned back against the pillows with a sneaky glint to her pale eyes.

"I hardly think you need to go out to do that," the blond man remarked sarcastically.

The woman waved her hand in the general direction of her bags. "I needed clothes, unless you rather preferred I walk around in Mr Holmes' clothes all the time and make you jealous?"

Sherlock spoke, "Stop misbehaving, Ms Adler, and just remain inconspicuous. Though the policemen of London are amazingly dull and irritatingly slow, we still shouldn't risk the knowledge of your return spreading to higher powers."

"Ah, do I detect concern and… _sentiment_, in your voice, Mr Holmes?" Irene asked and though her voice was teasing there also seemed to be a grim subtext John didn't comprehend at all.

"Not in _my_ voice, Ms Adler. Sentiment is only detected in the voice of a _losing_ party, as you might recall," the hostility in Sherlock's words was either badly covered up or not meant to be hidden at all. Still, John wondered if that was part of his obvious irritation or simply the man's way of flirting. After all, when it came to a flirting Sherlock Holmes, his friend had no idea what signals to look for. Or if the great man was even capable to flirt. Either way, the good doctor was sure he had missed some moment between the complicated duo, as Irene and Sherlock merely proceeded to compete in a stare down.

"Sore loser?" the detective asked at length and there was a teasing sparkle to his eyes that seemed to suggest triumph.

The woman's eyes, however, were blank and void of any such acknowledgement. "Not at all. I never hold a grudge for long. Besides, _that_ game is long since over, Mr Holmes. This is an entirely different game."

Sherlock's triumphant look fell away at once as he frowned in poorly covered up confusion. "What new game?"

"You'll soon find out," Irene smiled and this time it was her eyes that were triumphant. "And I won't apologize for going out without your permission. But don't worry, my dears, I'll do my best to remain inconspicuous."

The detective let out a short laugh of mockery and pointedly said, "Do better."

The woman shrugged as she sunk further down on the pillow and repressed a small yawn behind her elegant palm. "I'll just be myself."

"You're not listening to us at all, are you?" John asked and felt painfully reminded of the time Sherlock had been called to testify on Moriarty's trial. John had attempted to warn his friend not to be himself then, but his words of warning had gone in one ear and out the other. Trying to make Sherlock Holmes tone himself down had been like attempting to make a brick wall as soft as a kitten's fur. Irene Adler seemed no less of a challenge.

"I'm starving," the brunette changed the subject as she yawned. "Who's up for dinner?"

* * *

><p>They never did share dinner that evening, for the woman passed out again not long after their conversation due to the drugs still in her system and John went home to his wife.<p>

It had simply been Mrs Hudson and Sherlock by the dinner table, which hadn't been entirely comfortable for the detective as the elderly woman insisted on asking questions about the mysterious woman who slept in Sherlock's bed and about whether or not she recognized her from earlier years. When the detective had for the fifteenth time refused to reply, Mrs Hudson had at last given up, said goodnight and left Sherlock on his own just as the light outside fled to make room for night.

As the rain drizzled in the gloomy London night outside, the dark-haired man stood by one of the windows and played a solemn tune on his violin to match the weather. Halfway through the song Sherlock realized the song had shifted into one he had himself composed four years ago about the woman who currently had taken up residence in his bedroom.

The man quickly stopped. He lowered the bow from his violin and let the night consume the living room instead, with only the cracking sound of the fireplace and the sound of the rain against the window cut through the sharp silence.

Sherlock turned his gaze from the rainy world and looked back at his skull on the mantle piece, which was still adorned by Moriarty's party hat. An ever reminder of what would surely follow sooner or later, the man was aware. Last time when his nemesis had been on the warpath, Sherlock had mentally prepared himself for a duel, this time around he felt he rather ought to prepare himself for a war.

With a final sigh, the tall man turned from the skull. He slowly put away his violin for the night, killed the fire and walked through the kitchen in the direction of his bedroom.

He opened his door and haltered upon the sight that met him. Apparently, _The woman _wasn't passed out as he'd had expected, but quite vibrant and awake. Currently she lay on her side across his bed, facing the door in a daring position that spoke highly of her confident and daring nature. She was clad red lingerie and a pair of stockings was held up on her slim hips by a garter belt grazed with guipure lace.

Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a half-elaborate, fashionable hairstyle and her lips were painted blood red. There were lit candles on every wooden surface in the bedroom. The scent of the burning wicks as well as the heat of the fires that warmed Sherlock's skin where he stood in the doorway, seemed a stark contrast to the bleak weather he had just gazed out at in the living room.

Neither underwear, nor lace, nor lit candles en masse was anything Sherlock had ever seen in his bedroom before, and now that he was presented with the sight, he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"What are you doing, Ms Adler?" he asked at length and met her gaze head on, never letting his eyes trail down the rest of her well-shaped body. Sherlock braced himself for a fight, for there was no way he would allow the woman to be victorious this evening.

Irene was plainly not surprised at the man's tense posture and resilience. The realization struck Sherlock that she was clearly not expecting to win either, and it confused him to no end. Why she had then dressed up at all was something he couldn't deduce from his initial observations. In irritation, the man took his maroon robe from one of the hangers on the door and threw it onto the bedspread between them.

There was a sultry smile on her lips and a gleam to her eyes as she said in a low, raspy voice, "You can't blame a girl for trying, can you, Mr Holmes?"

"_I can_. When the girl in question has already lost. Put on the robe, Ms Adler," Sherlock said pointedly and put both hands in his pants pockets, as if to physically signal disinterest and put an end to the conversation.

The woman's smirk didn't budge. "I've already told you. That was a different game entirely."

"No, it wasn't," the man bluntly denied as he refused to play anymore.

Irene, however, was not about to give up the discussion as easily as he wished for. "It was. You just haven't realized it yet."

The tall man cleared his throat and sighed. He once more attempted to read her, but found he was somewhat thrown. When they had first met, she had appeared to him in nothing but her battle dress and so this armor wasn't as surprising to the detective. Still, he wasn't sure he could deduce anything he hadn't back then - which wasn't much - and remained on guard.

"You know you won't win tonight, though."

"Haven't you ever been tempted?" the woman asked then. Plainly, she didn't intend to play along with the man's tactics either. Sherlocl tilted his head to the side in silent confusion. "Don't mock me by pretending you don't understand the question, Mr Holmes."

The man smirked internally as he turned to close the door behind him. There was something in her clever manners that made it difficult for him to read her, yet she held the power to read his mind easily at times. He turned back to her and answered truthfully, "I've never been tempted."

In Irene's pale eyes, that were greatly emphasized against her dark hair dancing by the glow of the candles and her dark lips, danced a look of quiet disbelief. "Not even mentally? Just to try it… as some sort of experiment, perhaps? See what all the fuss is about?"

"No."

The woman shifted somewhat on the bed and the twinkle in her eyes ten-folded. She looked like curious child, trying to understand a mystery presented before her. Her intrigued peaked his own.

She leaned forward which amplified her cleavage from, what Sherlock assumed was, her best angle. From his own stance, the man kept his eyes locked with hers. When she spoke next, her voice was even more sultry and he figured it was a voice she must have used often in her line of work. "Are you tempted now, Mr Holmes?"

"No," he admitted matter-of-factly.

The woman paused a beat before she sat up on her knees, without breaking eye contact with the tall man. She crawled towards him and he stretched taller upon her approach. The woman stopped before him and placed her bare palms against his chest and fabric of his purple shirt. Sherlock felt the warmth of her hands through the fabric as they rested above his heart. He wondered if she was attempting to feel his heartbeat and deduce about him in secret, but he couldn't be sure.

Her pupils, in turn, were dilated and her breathing came shorter and careful, as if trying to minimize any alterations in her body language due to their proximity.

She leaned closer until their lips were just a couple of inches apart and Sherlock could feel her soft breaths against his cheek. She let her eyes roam his features, as if devouring him completely and sinfully with her teasing gaze.

"What about now, Mr Sherlock Holmes?" she whispered at length and her gaze attempted to penetrate his defenses in order to find a weak spot for her seductive tactics.

"…_No_," the man said and finally raised one hand from his pocket and placed it atop of Irene's hands to tug it away from him. "Go to sleep, Ms Adler."

The woman flashed him a brief smile, before she scooted back on the bed. She gazed away but without turning, when Sherlock realized something. His grip around her hand tightened and he pulled her back. The dominatrix's eyes flew up to meet his again and there was unmasked surprise in them.

"Show me your back," Sherlock half-begged, half-ordered in a low voice as he took one step closer until the leg of his pants touched the side of the bed.

Irene smirked cautiously. "Naughty boy. And here I thought you didn't want to misbehave with me. I only misbehave on _my_ terms, Mr Holmes."

"I don't want to _misbehave_ with you, Ms Adler," the man snarled and tried to read her eyes, noting how the table was turning in his favor and how he suddenly held the upper hand in this game. He paused a beat, before concluding, "I only want to see your scar."

This time he felt the woman's slim hand stiffen in his palm, though that was the only indication of a reaction he got as she didn't register the same rigidness in either eyes or body language. Observing closely, however, Sherlock noted her personal mask was back on and something had shifted in the air.

"Scar? What scar?" she asked in an innocent voice.

"The one on your back," the detective spoke bluntly.

"You silly man. What makes you think there is a scar on my back?" Irene questioned.

Sherlock leaned close into her personal space and his cheek barely grazed hers as he whispered in her ear, "I'll tell you why… You're a woman whose profession earns you a lot of money by the removal your clothes. You realized many years ago that when you removed your clothes, you found a way to misbehave and gain power at the same time. As you so masterly showed me the time we first met. You've stripped down to your best underwear tonight-"

"I knew you knew where to look. Thank you."

"- I didn't mean it as a compliment," the tall man frowned. "Now, I didn't think much of it at first, but you're refusing to turn your back to me. I distinctly recall that most of your promotional photographs on your website were of your undressed back, too… This suggests you consider your back one of your best weapons of choice. You might be undressed tonight, but you knew I would say no and must have figured I wouldn't notice your refusal to turn. You thought you'd get away with it. That your secret would have been safe a little while longer. But I observed. For a proud, intelligent woman like yourself, this suggests there is something on your back you don't want me to see for _personal_ reasons."

Irene shook her head and exhaled in amusement. "You're over-analyzing and over-reacting, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock ignored her as he pushed onward relentlessly, "-You don't hunch, you never cringe when you reach for something, your movements aren't stiff in anyway. It all suggests it's not a fresh injury. Nor is it broken bones or anything recently acquired. Obviously, the scar can't be too old. Fours years, at the most, as we both know."

The woman drew a sharp breath and glared up at him impassively. Sherlock waited for his price on baited breath. At length, she nodded once. "…Very well. I'll reward your observations, but only if you can tell me what kind of scar it is."

The dark-haired man felt a smile tug at the corner of his full lips. "Obviously not from a fire, since you've drowned my room with candles tonight. I doubt it's from a sharp weapon, based on your handling knives in the kitchen earlier. I'd say blunt force trauma. Caused by someone close to you... Was that why you divorced your husband?"

She chortled sharply, as if his words had been unkind, something Sherlock did not understand. For a second, the detective held her gaze stubbornly, confident he'd reached the solution and wouldn't back off. She pulled her hand from his strong grasp and swiftly turned around on the bed so that her back faced him.

His eyes quickly fell to her exposed back and there found the evidence he had almost expected. Except it wasn't simply one scar, but several. Sherlock distantly raised his hand to trace the outline of one of the narrow lines across her shoulder blades. The woman inhaled slowly as his fingers danced across her fair skin.

"A riding crop. The irony is not lost on me," the detective muttered as his fingers followed the contours of the multiple strokes that ran diagonally across her back.

"You weren't entirely correct, however," Irene said. Her voice sounded steady but Sherlock could see past her walls for this brief window of opportunity. "You were right about me thinking I could get away with it for a while. You're quicker than I remember. But the eldest scars are from the terrorists in Karachi before you arrived. They tortured me to prepare me for the inevitable death."

The man lowered his hand and gazed at the back of her head as he waited. He had a feeling there was nothing he could say to make the situation better, and he was reminded of all the times in the past when he had hurt his friends by a simple use of words and when attempting to rectify his wrong only had ended up hurting them further. For once, he opted for the silent approach.

"My back was bruised for months after you rescued me," the woman admitted. "They had just begun to fade when my ex-husband started to hit me. What he first thought was a fresh challenge when I dominated instead of allowing myself to be dominated, he soon grew tired of. It was, of course, never love. He wanted sex, I needed money. I suppose you could say we both got what we wanted in the end. I assure you, when I left him he was certainly the most _beaten up_ of the two of us."

Sherlock was still unsure how to respond to her confession as she turned back around to face him. Their eyes met across an abyss that didn't feel as wide anymore. Still, she had in such an open way, though complex in its simplicity it was, only managed to confuse the man even more.

Still, she had granted him access to a part of herself he was sure no one ever saw and allowed him to scratch at what lay beneath the surface. The man didn't know what to do and stood dumbstruck in the silence. Instead he hoped his eyes conveyed both his condolences, his support and something he could not put into words.

Whatever Irene read in his eyes made her raise her walls once more and he saw the unmistakable barrier rise between them once more. A satisfied smirk spread on her lips. "You're torn."

Sherlock frowned and cleared his throat, "S-Sorry?"

"Between wanting me to stay and wanting me to leave," she clarified. "You want me to stay because then you might be able to figure me out, but you want me to leave because of the chance that you might succeed."

The man's frown intensified. "Why do you say that?"

The beautiful woman smiled a joyless smile as she gracefully put on the maroon robe and tied it around her small waist. "If it makes a difference... You _are_ the first person I've met who might be able to learn my secrets."

"That frightens you," the detective observed.

"Not as much as I frighten you," Irene whispered and leaned forward until her face wasn't even an inch from Sherlock's and her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Sherlock stiffly held his breath as her nose brushed his briefly.

"What, _Mr Great Detective_, would you say to just one night of misbehaving?" she whispered into his ear and her breath warmed his skin.

"I…" the man said without emotion as he put both hands on her robed waist and shoved gently until she sat back on the covers. "…need to get nicotine patches."

With those words, the man opened the door once more. As he exited, the woman called after him in amusement, "Is _that_ what they're calling it these days?"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	6. The mental deterioration of Mr Holmes

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: The mental deterioration of Mr Holmes<strong>

The days passed quickly, one getting lost in the other, and soon Irene had stayed with Sherlock at Baker Street for two weeks. Though it went against her nature, and the man's belief, the woman had managed not to misbehave in that time.

Despite of the challenge she presented and the amounts of cases Lestrade presented to him, Sherlock found his outlets made him restless. As a result, he returned to his nicotine patches in a desperate attempt to get his kicks, but they offered little comfort to his under-stimulated brain. This, in turn, resulted in him attempting more and more experiments in between cases.

For one such experiment, Sherlock decided he needed a live subject. During a bleak January evening, the great detective arrived home with his purchase.

"Evening, Sherlock," John greeted from one of the armchairs as he heard the door close and the distinctive sound of wood creaking as the detective climbed the stairs.

As most free afternoons, the blond man had come to pay his friend a visit - hoping to find him working on a case he needed help with. Instead, he'd only found Irene, who'd entertained him with a cup of coffee while they both waited for the extraordinary man. John had brought his laptop, as it was, and was working on a blog entry from his old arm chair. Irene, seated in the other arm chair, looked up as the flat owner reached the top of the stairs, and her eyebrows rose at once. Her reaction caught the doctor's attention and he frowned at her in confusion as an unexpected sound broke the silence. It was the sound of a cat's frail meow.

"Oh, please tell me Sherlock just has a cold," the blond man sighed and hesitated to turn around. At last he did and was met with the sight of his best friend, still clad in coat and scarf, holding a black and white kitten in his arms as if it was a brick and not an animal.

"Oh, for the love of-" John sighed, put the laptop on the floor and stood to meet the spectacle. "What do you intend on doing to that cat?"

"I have an important experiment-"

"That will what? Put the cat in a coma? _Hmm_? _K__ill it?_" John remarked as Sherlock stepped into the room and dumped the cat in the woman's lap.

The tall man ignored his friend's words as he told her, "Don't cuddle with it while I prepare. I don't want it distracted."

"_No_!" John protested fiercely. "No experiments on live subjects, Sherlock! This is _not_ a pet laboratory! What's gotten into you lately?"

The detective gazed down at his short friend as if he did not understand the question, _"'Gotten into me'_, John?"

"You've done some intimidating and _weird_ experiments in the past, Sherlock. I'll admit to that. But you've never experimented on a live thing," the blond man remarked and glanced at the purring kitten in Irene's lap. The poor animal had no idea what cruel fate it could meet in one of Sherlock's experiments, and truthfully neither did John.

"Would you prefer I tried my experiments on humans, John?" the dark-haired man asked and cocked his head to the side.

"Heaven forbid! We don't want a Frankenstein's monster on our hands… Besides, we both know you do those experiments already, but in utmost secrecy. Thank you _again_ for that lost Wednesday..." the man muttered and sighed at length as Sherlock moved to take off his coat and scarf. The detective, pretending he hadn't heard the doctor's words once more, then walked over to Irene and looked down at her wordlessly. He held out an expectant hand but the woman pretended not to notice.

There was a soft pling from the laptop at that moment and John bent down to retrieve it. He opened it up and noticed he had a new message. Or that was to say, Sherlock did.

The doctor frowned down at the screen as if it was his enemy. "You _confiscated_ my laptop again, didn't you? How did you...? I'm not even here every day with it anymore! You have mail, Sherlock."

He held out his hand with the computer for the other man, who, upon realizing Irene wasn't about to give up the kitten, had opted to glare down at both cat and woman. Without saying a word in reply to John, Sherlock reached back a hand to receive the computer.

He swiftly turned on his heel in stiff frustration that neither John nor Irene seemed to have his back, and walked over to the desk with the laptop. The tall man sat down and John glanced over at the consultant detective. There was the slightest hesitation as Sherlock opened his mail. A wide image suddenly consumed the screen and John frowned as he stepped closer. He noticed the stiffness to his friend's shoulders and how the man seemed to have paused living as he glared, without blinking, at the image before him. The blond man leaned over his shoulder to have a look himself.

The image was of Moriarty and Sherlock, the sooner appearing joyous and the latter drugged and confused. The whole thing seemed bathed in the unappealing glow of the camera's flash and on the detective's dark curls rested the same party hat that now dressed the skull upon their mantle piece. John realized it must be an unwanted memory of the latest new year.

"Sherlock…" the blond man started slowly.

"What is it?" Irene asked but her her voice held no interest and she didn't join the men by the computer.

"Moriarty sends his love," Sherlock replied at length and there was something off in the man's voice. John desperately wanted to be able to read his friend, but knew it was pointless. The tone could mean anything from anger to fear to excitement of a challenge. The doctor just had no clue.

"There's a quote," he remarked instead and squinted at the text written in the bottom hand corner of the image. He quoted the words, "'I think it's time, don't you?'"

There was the soft sound of fabric moving as Irene stood from her armchair and walked over to the boys. Wordlessly, she handed the cat over to John's unsuspecting arms and leaned down until her face was close and parallel to Sherlock's. The short man could see she pretended to glance at the image out of boredom when curiosity clearly shone in her pale eyes.

Sherlock suddenly stood up swiftly and without warning, and both the others jumped out of the way as he crossed the room. The detective took out a pack of nicotine patches from his coat pocket without showing a single expression. John sighed at the melodramatic response to the received image as the man rolled up his sleeve and pressed four patches to his forearm.

"A little redundant, don't you think?" the blond man tasked and held onto the kitten, which uncomfortably moved about in his arms as if restless. Sherlock didn't reply but merely closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if micro-mediating on his problems. When he opened his eyes once more, there was serenity in them for a brief second before a storm gathered in his bright, blue eyes. His gaze immediately found Irene's and he pointed a finger in her direction.

"You know something about this," he accused simply.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the brunette said and shrugged her eyebrows. "I've told you already; I don't work for Jim Moriarty anymore."

Sherlock shook his head in obvious disbelief and crossed the room in three steps until he stood close in her personal space. There was something in his eyes that tried to penetrate Irene's barriers but failed miserably. Not accepting his defeat, the tall man took a rough hold of the smaller woman's arms.

"_Why_? Why did you return when you did? I _need_ answers."

Irene confusion deepened as she saw the man's desperation. "_I've already told you_."

The man shook his head and spoke in an unkind voice, "No, _that's the point._ You haven't. You've danced about it, pretending you've told me all the details I need to hear, but we both know you haven't. _Why?_"

"You don't need to kno-"

"_I need to know_!" Sherlock's sharp words echoed in the small room, taking the shape of his undeniable rage.

"Lay off, Sherlock," the blond said with a frown on his face. "It's just an image. There's no need to reach-"

"Oh, shut up, John," the detective snarled back. "We all know the photograph is more than just a cherished memory. This means the beginning of _something_. I want to know what. Ms Adler knows what. So don't tell me to _'lay off'_!"

The woman roughly pulled free from his grasp. "Why would I know something about it?"

"Stop playing the victim, woman," Sherlock warned and pointed his finger at her once more, like a teacher might warn a pupil for behaving badly. "You didn't react at all when I told you it was from Moriarty, which first of all suggests you weren't surprised. Second of all, your reaction when hearing the quote suggests you recognize the words. What is it? Some kind of code from Moriarty to you? To set off some elaborate game and ensnare me? It won't work, Ms Adler."

Irene took a defiant step closer to the man and returned to his personal space as she rose onto her toes "Of course I wasn't surprised. We both knew Moriarty would be in touch sooner rather than later. As for the picture, he did brag to me about that little part of his plan when we met in the basement. But that is also _all I knew_ of his plans concerning you. I haven't talked to him since that day. And if I was working for him, why would I betray our plans by so obviously showing interest now?"

The woman hesitated for the briefest of seconds, but the detective noticed at once. His hyper mind pushed him into overdrive, as he grabbed her upper arms again and shook her. "_Tell me_," he commanded more roughly than he needed.

Irene's eyes were cold and just as frustrated as the detective's when she continued, "I do recognize the words. But I don't know what he means by using them."

"From where? From where do you recognize it?"

"I used the exact same words once to him," the woman explained and truth shone in her eyes. "When I first wanted to see you four years ago. _That's all_."

"Liar."

Irene squared her shoulders and raised her chin as her face moved even closer to Sherlock's in plain defiance. "Read my eyes, Mr Holmes, and tell me I am lying when I say I've turned my back on Moriarty once and for all."

John did think Irene was a good liar, but there was no sign of deceit in her open, cold eyes now. The detective didn't seem as convinced.

"It's too much of a coincidence," he argued and squeezed her arms harder. "Tell me the whole truth."

"I've already told you all I know," she argued right back and it was clear her own frustration was gaining.

"_I'm not playing Moriarty's game again, Ms Adler, so just tell me!"_ Sherlock suddenly shouted and John saw pain flash in her eyes as the man's grip tightened.

"_Sherlock_!" the blond man warned and the cat meowed in his arms as if sensing the tension as well.

"You believe it, too, John. I know you do," the dark-haired man spoke to his friend though his eyes didn't leave Irene's, as if doing so would risk her slipping through his fingers once and for all. "You came back just in time for Moriarty's own return. You worked with him once and you almost won by collaborating. Now you tell me you've abandoned your alliance for what… _Love_? _Lust?_ As if you know how to-" Whatever Sherlock had been about to say was abruptly interrupted as the woman shrugged loose once more and slapped him hard across the jaw. Her actions stunned all three into silence and the only sound was from the poor kitten still attempting to escape John's gentle grip.

With her point having been made in the most final of ways, the short beauty shoved past the detective and walked out of the room. The door to the bedroom slammed shut not long after and the tension lingered in the air.

The detective glared past John, at the closed door, as the doctor cleared his throat, "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course, I am. Why? Don't I seem alright?" the man asked and his friend couldn't quite deduce if there was sarcasm or simple oblivion in the other man's voice.

"Eh, Sherlock… Listen. Ehm. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Which part?"

"Either one." This was another one of those times the doctor had no idea how to act or deal with his friend because there was no telling what reaction would come next. In fact, John thought even the show he had witnessed just minutes ago seemed to suggest a Sherlock Holmes very much on edge.

The tall man searched the shorter one's eyes and finally frowned. "If you have something to say just say it, John. Attempting to figure something out that is beyond your comprehension doesn't suit you."

"Fine," John sighed. "You seem to be overreacting, Sherlock. We did know Moriarty would be in touch… we did, Sherlock. Is he getting _too_ deep under your skin?"

"Don't make yourself even more stupid and average than you already are," the tall man scolded in his most unfriendly voice.

"There's no need to attack me, Sherlock," the blond doctor said as his own frustration grew. "I get that you don't trust Irene, I do. But I still think you're acting, well, unlike yourself."

"There are things going on here, John, that you can't even begin to comprehend with your petty mind. Just... be quiet. You're giving me a migraine," Sherlock said and with those words walked over to his arm chair and sunk into it as if the weight on the world was on his shoulders.

John glanced down at the kitten in his arms and then up at the detective. "Listen to me, Sherlock. As your doctor I recommend you rest a couple of days. You're could be showing symptoms of overexertion. As your _friend_… I want you to stop with the patches, Sherlock. You know they're no good."

"No need to worry for me, John. I'll manage. Moriarty hasn't killed me yet."

The doctor frowned at his friend but once more found he had trouble reading the man. "And with your track record, he won't this time either. Just… don't overreact."

"_Fine_," the detective sighed and drearily turned his gaze up to meet his friend's. "Was that all, _doctor_?"

John hesitated a beat. "No. I'm taking the cat back, too. There. _Done_."

* * *

><p>"We need to talk, Mr Watson."<p>

John felt discomfort take physical form somewhere in the depths of his spine. It was the day after Sherlock's little stint, and the man in question was currently not at Baker Street when his friend had opted to pop by for a quick check-up. The blond man had rather intended not to stay, but not found himself lingering at the top of the stairs. "... What about? I really need to go. Mary needs me for... pregnancy stuff."

The woman rose from the arm chair and stepped towards him. Her eyes were clear and her words to the point, "I know you've warned me about his mood swings and Aspergers. I still think he's acting abnormal, even when considering what is normal for Sherlock Holmes."

John knew his friend didn't find the cases as interesting as they should be, judging by the complexity of most of them. It was true, he had suffered the wrath of a bored Sherlock Holmes before but John slowly grew to believe this was different. Though it had been a bit rocky, Irene and Sherlock had patched their unique relationship together, though the doctor never did care to ask how. Still, he knew the woman noticed the deterioration of Sherlock's mood, too, especially since she was most often the object of his irritation and suspicion, not to mention that she was stuck with him on a daily basis.

The short man wet his lips and ultimately shrugged. "I don't know. He can be pretty wild at times."

"John…" Irene's voice was suddenly soft, though the man guessed this was only an act. "I know you're his best friend, but you're also a doctor. What if Moriarty's return is too much of a strain on his mind? He has seen a lot of things over the years and been forced to fake his own death. Could this be the final straw?"

John was briefly reminded of his own experiences in Afghanistan and the strain that had been on his own mind. He applied those consequences to his friend's situation and finally shook his head. "I don't think so. Sherlock's… different. He wouldn't-"

The blond was interrupted as the door suddenly swung open downstairs and the man in question swiftly climbed the steps with a furious Lestrade hot on his heels. The fire burned in the inspector's eyes while indifference shone in the other man's depths.

"I'm warning you, Sherlock, _you're off the case_! And you're lucky that's just a warning and not an arrest order I'm giving you!" Lestrade just about shouted at the detective consultant who shrugged out of his coat and rolled his eyes as if the police man was overreacting. "And you're definitely lucky Donovan didn't see you assault the victim back there or it would have been leaked to the whole damn media."

"Please…" the detective let out a disdainful breath as he threw the coat atop of one of the armchairs. With a quick glance he acknowledged John and Irene by the desk before spinning around to face Lestrade once more. "I don't care about the media."

"Jesus, Sherlock…" the grey-haired man huffed and almost shook with repressed anger. "This isn't about the media!"

"You brought it up first," the dark-haired man countered.

"What's…" John began and glanced between the police man and the detective. "…going on here?"

"He assaulted a victim!" Lestrade exclaimed loudly.

"I thought she was a suspect! I said I was sorry!" Sherlock shouted back and the epitome of calm disdain he had just showed seemed wiped from his mind in a single heartbeat.

The police man blinked and crossed his arms over his chest. "No you _didn't_!"

"Well… I thought it then. Unimportant, regardless," the detective shrugged.

"No, it's not!" Lestrade growled. "You assaulted a rape victim, Sherlock. I don't care what hunch you were following; she wasn't a suspect! In fact she's going to need special therapy after your verbal abuse of her… She wasn't guilty of anything!"

"Well. I know that _now_," Sherlock agreed and thus seemed to justify his manners to himself.

Lestrade shook his head as if unwilling to let go of the wrong he had witnessed this day. "As I said, you're off this case, Sherlock… And any other case I might have for awhile."

The detective glared at the inspector as if the whole thing had taken a nasty turn indeed. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think? I mean… I'm _me _after all."

"I don't care if you're a maharadja of India, you're not getting close to one of my crime scenes!"

"I have my own clients, I can find work elsewhere," Sherlock snarled back and without awaiting the elder man's reply, walked out of the room and into his bedroom. The end of the conversation was marginalized by the sound of the door closing with a bang.

Lestrade turned to look at the other two people in the room and released a breath and looked like a deflated balloon.

"He's just about lost it, John! He's nuts! More nuts than normal, that is…" he muttered and with a simple goodbye the inspector left the flat.

Irene turned back to face the stunned, blond man. "You still don't think he's off the rocker?"

John shook his head. "I don't actually. Somethings off, I'll agree to that. But insane? _No_. I've heard people voice that concern before. That one day he'll snap… I just can't believe it. I can't explain it. Sherlock is capable of a lot of mad things, but he also has the strongest mind I've ever met. He wouldn't snap because his nemesis returned and the pressured intensified."

The woman pondered his words and John could almost see the internal debate within her eyes. At length, she nodded at the doctor.

"Alright then. If you say he's not insane, I'll believe you. _However_... It means we need to figure out what _is_ wrong."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	7. Tempus fugit

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: Tempus fugit<strong>

Irene flinched as she felt something strong and quite forceful envelope her waist and she awoke with a start. She tried to fight the strong arms that held her captive and trashed about as she was lifted from the bed in a fluid motion.

"Will you stop?"

The woman froze and blinked against the light and her own panic, as she felt one arm sneak under her knees. Holding her bridal style, was Sherlock Holmes himself, who was frowning unkindly at her.

"Mr Holmes...?" Irene asked and her voice was still thick with sleep. "What time is it?"

"5:55 AM," he replied as he turned around with the woman in his arms and walked to the door.

"You know, you're supposed to lift a woman _into_ bed, not out of it," she yawned and relaxed into his arms. "What are you doing?"

The man carried her into the living room and explained as he put her down in his arm chair, "I need your opinion on a case. I called John to get his opinion, but he didn't answer his phone. I'm left with you."

Irene opened her mouth as her tired mind searched for words. "And this couldn't wait an hour or two? Until I'd awoken _naturally_?"

As if the idea was preposterous, Sherlock frowned. "_No_."

Certain this was another part of his mental deterioration, the woman sighed. She tried to quickly work through the options in her head, and at last asked, "Is this a reaction to my marriage?"

The man's frown intensified as he put both hands behind his back. "You were married?"

"Are you serious?"

The thought that Sherlock had somehow forgotten about that vital piece of information disturbed the woman. John had once told her that Sherlock Holmes knew just about everything, but would forget things he considered unimportant. It hurt her ego now, to think information about her was something the man filtered out. She quickly raised her left hand and flashed the tan line on her ring finger.

"Yes, yes, I remember,"The man nodded in sudden recognition. "The answer is _no_. And even if it could have, why would it? You should stop flattering yourself, Ms Adler."

"And you should stop denying what you know is true, Mr Holmes," the woman gazed up at the man.

"What I know is true and what you are pretending I know aren't compatible in the real world, Ms Adler."

The woman sighed. Sometimes, it was easier to talk to a wall than to Sherlock Holmes. But she couldn't stop now, she needed to push him for answers in order to figure out the source of his problems which seemed to be rapidly building to a dangerous culmination. In her most challenging voice, she whispered, "Something isn't right with your mind. Tell me I'm wrong."

The main raised his chin and glared at her. "You're wrong."

Irene squinted her eyes and rose from the chair as she approached the pj-wearing man slowly. "No. This time, _I'm_ not wrong."

The implication to her words were clearly not lost on Sherlock as his posture stiffened and he glared back at her with a murderous stare. The muscles in his jaw tensed before he swirled around. "I haven't revealed why I woke you yet, aren't you curious? Then again, I'm starting to think I shouldn't share anything, for risk of you slipping through my fingers. We don't want you to run to Moriarty and tell him all my secrets, do we?"

"_I don't work for that man._ How many times will you make me say it?" the brunette sighed in exasperation and crossed her arms over her chest in defiance and frustration.

"As many times as it takes until you tell the _truth_," Sherlock swirled back around and his eyes were barely illuminated by the morning light outside, but still plainly filled with conflicting emotions. The distance between them seemed greater than ever. Irene noted there was an unspoken threat in his ocean colored eyes. "You must think I'm thoroughly stupid."

"Au contraire, my dear," she cooed.

The tall man moved closer and Irene thought he acted much like a predator closing in on its pray. She recognized it, for it was a tactic she usually mastered as the predator. She squared her shoulders as he moved right into her personal space, uncomfortable about playing the prey for once. Whatever was different with the man had officially moved from confusing to incomprehensible. There was still something dark in his eyes as he raised his right hand towards her. His hand closed around her slim throat somewhere between a soft caress and a hard squeeze. The woman focused on keeping her breathing calm and heart rate low.

"_I. Don't. Trust. You,_" Sherlock emphasized every word as he articulated them with great care. As he finished his fingers closed tighter around her throat until she felt her breathing somewhat impaired.

She said nothing as she kept her gaze locked with his. She tried to read the intention in his stormy eyes, but there was no clarity visible for interpretation.

Swift steps suddenly ran up the stairs and panting breaths echoed in the silence of the room. Both Irene and Sherlock turned as they saw John Watson lingering at the entrance of the living room with fear slowly being replaced by perplexity in his wide eyes.

"…Sherlock? What's going on here?" the man questioned as he tried to calm his breathing. His eyes traveled from one person to the other in the dark living room before his gaze landed on the hand around the woman's throat.

"It's alright, John," the woman assured and her face was a perfect blend of a snarl and a flirtatious grin. "Mr Holmes doesn't realize this is only a turn on for me."

"You came, John!" the detective exclaimed in relief and shock seemed to wash over him momentarily.

The doctor blinked in confusion. He shifted from one foot to the other as wet his lips and tried to contain his rage. "Of course I came! I rushed here, Sherlock! You left Mary a frightening message that said it was an emergency! I thought you'd experimented on Irene or something! And I see I wasn't entirely wrong, was I?!_ What's going on?_"

"She's one of _them_, John. Not one of the angels," Sherlock explained cryptically and shot a swift glance in his friend's direction, as if that one look ought to convince him.

"Maybe…" the blond man acknowledged and stepped inside. The fact that his friend's words were the complete opposite of those he had uttered the morning after Irene's arrival did ring as a warning bell in the doctor's head. "Or maybe she's telling the truth."

Sherlock's focus on the woman shifted at once then and he pushed her away with a firm shove. His fury now directed solely at his best friend. "…You, too, John?"

"What?" the man questioned and glanced at the woman who backed off to the side with one hand rubbing the sides of her red throat. "What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"Are you in on this, too?" the madness seemed to rise up in the man's eyes as the high tide. "Are you collaborating with Moriarty, too?"

"_No one is collaborating with Moriarty_!" John claimed loudly but saw it was to no avail. "Don't you think you ought to calm down a bit? Listen to reason."

"_I am reason_," Sherlock argued back in his own logic. "And I see I can't trust you. _Either of you_. You should leave my house. Both of you!"

The short man stood his ground firmly, "Stop acting so irrational and listen to us. We just want to help! You can talk to us!"

Sherlock laughed in mockery and the other two felt the sting of his disbelief. "I think you just made it very clear that I can't."

With that Sherlock left the room brusquely. Irene and John gazed at each other in silence, unsure what could be said about the situation. The tension lingered in the early morning air, as if touchable despite not taking physical form. At length, the doctor opened his mouth to comment just as the detective re-entered the room frantically waving something small and black in the palm of his hand. John recognized it immediately and ducked just as his friend fired the first bullet. It hit the wall next to the sofa. John and Irene both ducked low as Sherlock fired another round.

"Stop! Sherlock, _stop_!" the blond man shouted and covered his head as he heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. One of the windows had obviously been hit. Oh, he'd have to explain this to Lestrade later…

John's heart pumped wild in his chest and he knew he had to do something to stop this madness. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't seem to aim towards either him or Irene, but the whole situation was still terrifying. He turned from his hunched position and noted his friend turned his back to him and pointed the gun elsewhere. John saw the opportunity and didn't hesitate as he dove forward and wrestled the larger man to the ground, quickly pushing the gun away from the man's grip. The detective continued to struggle and shout about their betrayal of him. John glanced up at Irene and his gaze pleaded for assistance. She hurried over and crouched by Sherlock's side.

"This is a conspiracy!" the detective shouted as the woman moved closer into his personal sphere.

"Sherlock, look at me," Irene's firm hands on either one of his cheek forced the mad man to meet her gaze head on. "_Think,_ Sherlock. John has seen you at your worst several times before. Would he be concerned unless he actually thought something was wrong? Think. Feel. You know it's true. And if you don't, you're not as sexy clever as I thought you were."

"No. I-"

The woman grimaced and put a hand over his mouth as John sensed Sherlock's muscles relax somewhat. "Will you shut up for one second and stop trying to prove us wrong?"

The man's muffled response came quick, "Will you stop trying to dominate me?"

"When you stop misbehaving, Mr Holmes," Irene said and removed her hand from his mouth.

"I'm not misbehaving."

"Yes, you are."

"You're the one who's plotting against me! And you've taken John from me, too!" there was genuine fear in Sherlock's voice now and his friend pushed away so that the detective could see his honest face, too.

"No one's plotting anything, Sherlock," John tried to reassure his friend in a soft tone, but his words of comfort went in one ear and out the other. The detective merely shook his head and managed to push away from both Irene and John. Without another word, the man left the room, hurried down the stairs and fled out the front door despite still being clad in his pj's and robe.

"It's just getting out of control. The symptoms resemble a panic attack, but I don't know..." the doctor said in a low voice and sighed painfully. It hurt him to see his friend acting this way. Like he sincerely couldn't trust even his best friend anymore, after everything they'd been through.

"We can't keep ignoring the elephant in the room. Sooner or later he's going to injure himself… or us," Irene breathed, she, too, visibly affected by the recent events. "We have to figure out what's going on. He started behaving like this about two weeks ago, didn't he? What happened then?"

John shot her a half-amused, half-disbelieving look. "Except you moving in, you mean?"

"You believe that I have something to do with this?" she asked and this time the blond man thought there was actual pain even in the woman's voice.

"No. But that could just be because I'm not clever enough to actually read you correctly," John answered honestly. "I don't think you're lying. _This time_, that is. I don't understand you any more than I understand him… But I don't think you're collaborating with Moriarty any more than I think Sherlock's insane."

"Thank you," the woman smiled and John cocked his head to one side. She frowned at the doctor upon noticing the change in his eyes. "What now?"

"Sorry. It's just, you seem so… soft. Like it's genuine."

Irene's eyes were once more cold and the doctor was reminded of the dominatrix he first had met four years ago. "Poor man… poor John. You think I do this because I care?."

The man sighed and shrugged. "Then why?"

"Sherlock is the only one who has beaten Moriarty at his own games. And the only one who beat me. He's the only one that can help me stay alive. But he won't be able to protect me if he's involuntary committed, will he?"

John pondered her words. "You know what? I can't tell if you're serious or just playing me."

"_Good_," Irene cooed in her best voice of misbehavior. "Besides. I want Sherlock to owe me one in return."

"_Ah_. He saves your neck from being cut off and you save him from losing his mind? Inspiring plan."

"What else happened two weeks ago?" Irene asked and there was a beat as John saw all the wheels in her head turn. Suddenly, her eyes flew up to meet his and he could see a new light shine within them. "I think I know."

"Great!" John breathed in relief. "What?"

Without responding, the woman swiftly flew up from the floor and she, too, ran out the front door though dressed in pj's.

The doctor remained alone and left behind on the wooden floor, attempting to understand what had just transpired. Distantly, he turned his gaze in the direction of the door, "Were we finished…?"

* * *

><p>John wasn't sure what to make of it. A few hours after both Sherlock and Irene had left the flat without explanation, Lestrade had rung him. The police had urged him to come into the station at once. John didn't need to be told that their old friend had bad news about the detective.<p>

The doctor had hurried out, hailed a Hackney carriage and soon found himself standing face to face with Lestrade in the latter man's office.

John stared with large, unblinking eyes at the DI after having been told the reason for Lestrade's phone call. "_Detained?_"

The grey-haired man seemed sincerely apologetic as he explained, "I had to, John. Sherlock came to my crime scene and acted _wild_… I didn't have any other choice."

The short man nodded in understanding and urged the police man to continue.

"I have to warn you," Lestrade's voice lowered despite the door being closed and the two men being alone. "There are rumors…"

"What rumors?"

"That Sherlock's lost it. Donovan and a couple of others believe he's become a psychopath."

"Sherlock _is not a psychopath,_" John fiercely contended.

"Well… I admit, he's always been different, but never this out of control," the elder man spoke. "The events in his flat, too, with the gun... It all speaks of something being wrong with the man. The powers that be want to… Eh. They want to _test_ Sherlock."

The blond man held up his hand to stop the other man and slowly tried to process what it all meant. "What do you mean _test_?"

Lestrade's gaze was once more apologetic. "To assess if he can be considered mentally unstable."

"What? You have got to be joking?"

Lestrade obviously wasn't. "I just wanted to warn you, John. I have my standing orders from the authorities. My hands are tied in this. A psychologist is coming in to… determine…"

"He's not insane! I just need time to prove it, Greg!" the other man begged in pure desperation but knew it was pointless from the look in Lestrade's eyes.

At last they said goodbye and as John headed out of the police station, he dialed his phone. He pressed it close to his ear and waited for the receiver to pick up. "Irene. Yeah, it's me. Listen, we have a serious problem."

"I know," her dry voice spoke over the phone before John could explain himself. "Meet me at St Bartholomew's Hospital, and bring your dear friend Ms Hooper."

* * *

><p>"I really don't see why you need me, John," Molly said as she and the man headed into her lab. The woman had already been at work when her old friend had called her, and it hadn't taken any effort to convince her to help since it concerned Sherlock Holmes. "I don't even know this… woman. Or how she knows of me."<p>

"I wish I could explain it to you," the blond man sighed and held open the door for Molly. She stepped inside the laboratory and John followed right behind. Inside the familiar room that Sherlock often occupied for his experiments, Irene already sat bent over a microscope.

"Hello…" Molly greeted awkwardly and John noticed how she tried to accept the other woman's existence inside her lab. Clearly the experience wasn't too pleasant.

The brunette didn't look up from the microscope and John was reminded of someone else when deeply involved in a case. Irene's voice carried strong, as she said, "There's no time for pleasantries, my dear. Come over here instead and have a look."

The woman pushed her chair back from the table and pointed her open palm at the microscope impatiently.

"What is it?" John asked in wonder.

"I'll tell you soon," Irene said grimly. "Any news?"

"Yeah," the blond man sighed in frustration. "Lestrade phoned when we were coming in. Apparently the psychologist declared him mentally unwell, after all. He tested negative for drugs and apparently threw a wild fit where he hit two police men, one of them being Donovan."

"Oh, bet he wasn't too concerned about that," Molly said jokingly, but the comment lost some of its humor coming from the young woman's mouth. The woman awkwardly walked over to the microscope and focused on the work before her upon noticing the glances from John and Irene.

"Apparently he showed symptoms of what the doctor called a mix between paranoid personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder. Though I have a feeling the latter is just Sherlock being Sherlock," the short man continued "Because of his violent nature they want to transfer him to a locked ward instead of keeping him detained."

"Which is why we're here," Irene remarked. "I know what's wrong with Sherlock. His pulse was elevated this morning. He seemed to suffer from a short fit of amnesia. Elevation swiftly turning to hysteria. And of course, there were the obvious symptoms of paranoia. I think he knows it, too. He's just… too proud to admit the truth even to himself."

John shook his head still confused. "I'm sorry… These are symptoms of _what_?"

"A drug."

"What? I… Could you take it from the start?"

Slowly, the woman explained, "_The nicotine patches_. Sherlock picked up that nasty habit about a month ago. I have one of his patches under the microscope there. You told me he bribed everyone in a six mile radius not to sell him cigarettes and patches. Well… He did find himself a dealer. But not just any dealer. One of the boys on Moriarty's pay roll. It took me a lot of time, but I managed to track the boy down. I have my own ways of finding people."

"Wait!" John breathed and his jaw dropped. "_Moriarty_? Are you saying…?"

"And it's quite clever, too, isn't it? For what is Sherlock Holmes without his perceptive mind and unchallenged intellect?" Irene asked with a hint of admiration of a plan well conceived. "Moriarty was planning to destroy Sherlock from within, from the only place he would actually care about... His mind palace."

"How?" Molly asked. "What did he do to the nicotine patches?"

"It's very simple, Ms Hooper," the ex-dominatrix cocked her head sideways. "You are the key, after all."

The younger woman felt her cheeks flame warm and her gaze dropped to the floor. "Excuse me?"

Irene didn't respond as she changed the topic, "We need to test my theory before we go to the police. The only way to do so is if you run experiments on me."

John pulled out his phone once more. "Right. I'll see if I can buy us more time from the only one who can help now. I'm calling Mycroft."

With those words, the blond excused himself and stepped out into the hallway, leaving the two women alone in the cold, sterile room. Molly cleared her throat and Irene dully glanced at her.

"How…" the lab rat hesitated. "… do you know Sherlock, exactly?"

"I told you, dear," the woman sighed, "there isn't time for pleasantries. I just need you to help me with this experiment."

"It would help, you know," Molly said and there was a trace of irritation to her voice this time, "if you could explain just what we are experimenting with. And why I'm '_the key'._"

Irene smirked sensually and leaned in closer to the other woman. "I'll tell you everything you need to know, Ms Hooper. Shall we begin?"

* * *

><p>Several hours later, after the sun had set and the sky turned dark, John found himself back at the police station. This time Lestrade had led him and Molly to one of the larger conference rooms and they were joined by Donovan, the psychologist who'd assessed Sherlock and the recently proclaimed insane man himself. The latter sat in handcuffs and a somewhat torn up shirt and lounge jacket at the short end of the table while the other people were spread out across the room. Sherlock's dark gaze rested intently on John and Molly at the other end of the table.<p>

"Sherlock isn't insane," the doctor repeated to the people and searched for the right words to describe all the things Irene had informed him and Molly and the results of the experiment in itself. The answer came out short, "He was drugged."

"How?" the detective asked before anyone had a chance to open their mouths.

"The nicotine patches. I told you they weren't good for you," John said with a pointed look and half-smirk. "You bought your patches from a guy who secretly worked for Moriarty. We… found him and learned the truth. The patches were soaked in a special drug which entered your blood stream as you put them on your arms. And since you never use moderate amounts, you basically had an overdose reaction every time."

"What drug?"

"MDMA," Molly explained shortly with a short, kind smile to the man. "Commonly known as ecstasy."

The wheels in Sherlock's head turned swiftly and within a few seconds he nodded in understanding. "Of course. The irony. One street name for ecstasy is 'Molly'. The person who brought me and Moriarty together the first time. He's being nostalgic."

The woman didn't quite know how to interpret his words but at length offered a tiny smile. "Right. The, ehm… The symptoms of an ecstasy overdose include hysteria, mild amnesia, paranoia, severe hostility, anger, narcissism, delusion of grandness-"

"Sherlock has most of those things in his normal state," Donovan frowned and her tone of voice was bitter.

"Not without reason," Sherlock replied just as dryly and sent the woman police a look of disdain. "Though I suppose to a common mind like yours it's incomprehensible."

"Hold on," Lestrade stopped the consultant detective. "Why didn't any of this show up on the drug test we ran?"

"Well, Moriarty is sneakier than that, obviously," the detective smirked and John felt a weight lift upon recognizing his friend's mind was returning to normal. "It was an altered version of the drug. Isn't that right, Molly?"

"Mm, yes," the woman nodded enthusiastically as the consultant detective watched her. "Designed to be virtually untraceable in your blood stream, unless you knew to test it at the same time the drug entered your system. We had a sample of Sherlock's nicotine patches and performed this experiment to prove our theory. All our results are in the files…" Molly held up the folder she'd brought for everyone to see.

"So Sherlock isn't… insane?" Donovan asked, once more in strong disbelief.

"No," John said, but then clarified, "Well, somewhat mentally deranged perhaps, depending on who you ask. It was just the drug that enhanced all of Sherlock's natural attributes until they consumed what was left of him. He should be just fine when the last of the drug wears off, but might suffer some withdrawal symptoms. I suppose that's about it."

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Good work, John. You too, Molly."

"Don't thank us. It's wasn't _our _idea," the doctor spoke with a pointed glance. "The woman who thought of it told me to tell you… that you don't have to feel obliged to express that this was remarkable or amazing."

"_Ah_…" the detective shrugged his eyebrows in understanding and then held out his hands towards Donovan so that she could un-cuff him. The grin on his face was anything but kind.

* * *

><p>"…And you're not going to tell me how she did it?" Sherlock asked as he unlocked the door to 221 B Baker Street.<p>

"I would if I could…" John sighed as he entered right behind him. "I guess she has her connections, too."

"Yes…" the tall man agreed shortly and the doctor knew it was a signal to end their conversation in case the woman in question would overhear.

The two men removed their coats and walked up the darkened stairs in silence. A lamp shone in the far end of the living room, but the rest was bathed in the great darkness of night. Sherlock glanced over at his closed bedroom door and seemed to wrestle with an inner demon. John couldn't help but smirk at the thought of his friend struggling to find it in him to say a simple thank you to the woman.

"Well. I'd better…" Sherlock's words trailed off as he gazed in the direction of his room and the blond man nodded in encouragement. Personally, he hoped Irene would milk the moment just for the heck of it.

The doctor smirked as his friend readied himself mentally and walked over towards his bedroom door, while John himself stepped into the living room to wait. He yawned loudly and slowly moved over to the desk. He stopped and frowned down at the table. On the top of Sherlock's closed laptop rested Irene's phone. John wondered briefly why it lay out there and distantly picked it up.

"She's not here, John. Where is she?" the detective swiftly walked back through the kitchen and into the living room, his eyes demanding a swifter reply than the doctor could offer.

John frowned back. "She's not? What...? But I made sure she came home earlier after the experiment… She should be sleeping the effects off. Are you sure she's not here?"

"Unless she decided to rest while playing an elaborate game of hide and seek in the flat, John, I'm sure," Sherlock said dryly and glanced down at the object in his friend's hand. John could visibly see the features in the man's long face darken with realization. "Irene's phone."

"Oh, eh, yes…" the short man looked down at it as Sherlock swiftly reached forward and pulled the phone from his grasp. "Found it on your laptop."

The detective wasn't listening as he unlocked the phone and began to search through its contents. John frowned up at his friend. "Eh, Sherlock, what are you doing? That's private."

"It was private until she left it out in the open. Don't you get it?" Sherlock asked and his friend bit his tongue from conveying all the ways he did _not_ get it. "She wanted us to find her phone. The question is why…"

Sherlock's last words died out and John noticed how the frown on his face increased tenfold. Obviously, he had struck gold. "What is it? What did you find?"

"Here. Read it," the man said in a short tone and shoved the phone back into John's unprepared hands.

The man fumbled with the phone before he looked down at what he presumed was Irene's inbox. The detective had opened up her latest received message and John read it out loud, " 'I think it's time, don't you, Ms Adler? Tempus fugit at 0963. – JM.' Oh God… _Moriarty_? Moriarty texted her? Why?"

"Look at the first words…" the tall man snatched back the phone. "'_I think it's time, don't you_?'. It's just like the words on the photograph Moriarty sent me. The warning wasn't for me, it was to Irene. _Of course!_ I've been so stupid, John, when it was so plain to see!"

The doctor cleared his throat and blinked up at the other man. "…_Was it_? Mind filling this slower brain in?"

"She openly betrayed Moriarty."

John nodded slowly. "… So he sent her the image _to your email_ to remind her of his coming retaliation on her? But made us believe the message was for you. … Do you think she realized that when she saw the photograph in your mail?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock hissed and there was plain irritation in his body language as he paced the room. "That's why her interest peaked when she heard the quote. And why she connected my mental deterioration to Moriarty so quickly. She realized he had me drugged as a cover to strike a meeting with her without us two noticing. When she realized what he was actually up to she withheld that information because if she had told us before we would have stopped her from going. Oh, she is better than I remember…"

"Yes, well, you can tell her of your admiration as soon as we figure out where she's meeting him. If you're right, Sherlock… you think he'll kill her? Tonight?"

The man didn't meet his friend's questioning gaze but nodded in response. "Give me a minute. The answer to their meeting place must be in the text since he's given her no other clue."

"What?" the short man frowned. "How can anyone deduce anything from that?"

Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and turned back to face his friend. John sighed in frustration as he saw _the look_ on the detective's glowing face and was anything but amused. The doctor sure as hell didn't know what really was going on this time. "...You figured it out, didn't you? And you're not going to tell me, are you?"

The tall man merely smirked and left the room, leaving John alone once more. The man stood baffled and looked about as if the answer to everything was written somewhere in the dark shadows. He then raised his head and looked in the direction his friend has just disappeared. "Again…?"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	8. Oh death

_A/N: I've never actually watched the tv-series Supernatural, but I liked a haunting song that's featured in this chapter. The song can be found here -__ www. youtube watch?v=2DFR1RIXQW8._

__Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.__

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: Oh death<strong>

"Come on, John!" the detective urged his friend as he pocketed his gun and headed down the stairs, as if there was no outside world than what Sherlock Holmes currently cared for.

"Woah! Sherlock! Where are we going?" John asked from his awkward loneliness in the living room before he followed the man, like the second car follows the locomotive.

The tall man stopped on the sidewalk and had his back turned to John, as he waved for a taxi. The doctor could see the stiff stance beneath Sherlock's thick coat plainly. There was a beat, before Sherlock swirled around to face his friend, the same unwillingness to take pause plainly written across his face as well. John understood his friend, or at least assumed he did. He wanted to save the woman, too, though it sort of pained him to admit as much. She had been a great help in solving the puzzle of Sherlock's deteriorating mind, and had in her own way then won the blond man's respect. Whether it was this frustration and stress of a friend in distress that Sherlock's eyes now conveyed, or a deeper emotion, John couldn't know.

As the sounds of the cars whizzing by outside, the tall, dark-haired man managed through gritted teeth, "If you don't mind… According to the text Irene has a thirty minute head-start on us and I'd appreciate getting to her while she still has a pulse. Could we take this on the way?"

A black cab stopped outside Baker Street then and with a pleased hum, Sherlock opened the door and stressed his friend inside. John sat down in the backseat and pondered the clues thus far as the detective gave the cab driver a destination and jumped into the backseat as well.

The doctor turned and gazed at the detective hesitantly. Sherlock noted and sighed heavily. The detective really didn't think there was much time for it, but if it would help the slower mind and let them move on to the major issue... The man inhaled until his lungs could fill no more and shared his deductions in lightning speed, "Tempus fugit. Time flies. Suggests the location to their rendez-vouz is somewhere relating to time. A clock, a clock shop, clock maker? Now, what about 0963? Despite being written like military time code it is obviously not telling the time since there aren't sixty-three minutes per hour. No, what's missing is a simple comma. 96,3."

"Ok. 96,3-what?" John questioned and to his defense he did feel it was an honest question considering the fact that his friend had just a few hours earlier been declared insane, though wrongful it had been. There could still be remnants of the drug in Sherlock's system and he just wanted to make sure his friend was sure of what he was doing now.

"Meters, obviously," the detective said dully. "Now, where does time fly at 96,3 meters, John?"

The blond man glanced sideways at his friend and saw the unmistakable twinkle in the man's pale eyes. Even though Sherlock wanted to rush out to save the woman, he seemed at the same time excited to have a proper puzzle to solve for once. "…I'm not sure the drug has worn off yet."

"A clock tower. The great bell of Westminister, actually. The bell tower stands at 96,3 meters. 61 meters is the bell tower, the remaining part is the taper. _Big Ben_, John."

The other man nodded thankful not to be left out of the loop anymore and positive his friend was fully himself. "Very well! There's something I don't understand though."

"Isn't there always?" Sherlock muttered as he shifted in his seat and watched shop lights and buildings swish by outside the car window in the dead of night like a blur of colors.

John thought about not asking, but in the end knew he had to, "I just don't get why she'd go at all? If she knew he was intending to kill her, why willingly meet her doom?"

The Holmes boy sighed and pulled out the woman's phone from his coat pocket. "There were two more texts between Irene and Moriarty a few hours before the final cryptic text. First one from Irene telling the criminal she had outsmarted him, and Moriarty's reply… Here. 'I applaud you, Ms Adler. Come alone when I call for you later or they die.'. Obviously he meant you and I. She went because he gave her no choice."

"Then why leave us the phone?"

"Maybe she hoped I could still be in time to save her," Sherlock stated in a low, dark voice. _As do I_, the man added to himself in his mind, though he wasn't prepared to admit as much to his friend. He then turned his gaze out the window while one of his impatient hands drummed its fingers against his knee in an impatient beat.

The doctor watched his distressed friend but refrained from commenting on his uncommon behavior.

* * *

><p>The time had almost reached the stroke of midnight, Irene noted as she gazed out through the glass of the great clock. She had arrived at Big Ben just twenty minutes ago and wasn't too surprised to find both the path unlocked and unguarded as she had made her way up to the very top of the bell tower. Obviously, Moriarty had connections everywhere to make it happen.<p>

She had found her way to the smaller area right behind one of the dials in the four-faced clock itself to await Moriarty. The area was about three meters wide and twenty meters long and opposite the glass of the clock there was a large wall, behind which the mecanics of the watch were hidden from sight.

Irene stood close to the clock and attempted to look down at the Thames but found that it was virtually impossible to see anything but shadows and light playing outside the opal glass. Besides a few lanters in the small space inside, the moon itself bathed the room in a pale light. Irene wished all the more she could have seen the city of London down below one last time. Or that she could have seen the people she cared for most once more, but it was better this way, she supposed.

She was no stupid girl, and had known from the get-go that following the directives in Moriarty's text would lead to her probable death. If she was lucky, the youngest Holmes had found her phone, decrypted the text and was on his way to save her. Then again, that would also mean that he might not be so lucky, Irene knew. Moriarty had in plain text threatened he would kill Sherlock and John if they appeared. The woman couldn't help but be afraid she had made the wrong choice in hoping naively that the brilliant man would find a way to solve that small problem, too. Regardless, she couldn't rely on the detective's aid now.

Early on, when she had first contacted the criminal master mind, Irene had learned of his intricate love of games and riddles. She had also learned that no one crossed his path and lived, just as Sherlock had later also warned her. And this time, it meant she was no longer the dominatrix but the dominated. The fact that her puppet-master was none other than the criminal mastermind who held the whole world in the palm of his hand, frightened her more than she cared to admit.

Suddenly, a sound echoed between the high walls in the bell tower, a chill ran up the woman's spine. It was a humming noise of a haunting tune that danced between the shadows. It seemed to awaken dark thoughts and deeds everywhere. Irene stood frozen and with her head held high. Fear gripped at her throat but she would rather die than portray that truth.

"O-oh, death…" the voice sang in a low-key tone. "O-oh death. Won't you spare me over 'til another year…?"

The brunette heard the soft tapping sound as shoes hit the floor and the voice grew louder and closer from the shadows on her right, from the same stairs she had recently climbed to get to the hidden area.

"But what is this that I can't see, with ice cold hands taking hold of me?" Moriarty's voice sang the haunting melody as Irene held her gaze fixed out at the dial. "When God is gone and the Devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?"

Suddenly his voice was close to her ear and Irene could feel his warm breath on her neck and ear. "No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul…. Well, I am death none can excel, I open the door to heaven or hell. My name is death and the end is… here…"

The fair woman kept her face impassive while her heart hammered in her chest. Dully, she commented, "I don't particularly care for that song. I prefer 'Live to die another day'."

The man chuckled, though there was no warmth in his laughter, and Irene finally turned to look at the man beside her.

There was a sick, twisted grin on his face as his dark eyes spoke of joyless amusement. There was obvious glee in his entire stance as he held her gaze firmly. The criminal wore a classic, grey suit and his hair was slicked back. His hands rested casually in his pants pockets as if this was more of a friendly meeting than a 'business meeting' such as this.

Suddenly the smile on Moriarty's face disappeared and left in its wake nothing but coldness and death. "You've stopped me twice now, dear. You didn't actually think I'd let you continue, did you? You're like the annoying, teaseful thorn in my eye. I simply must take you out and be rid of you…"

Irene turned to look out the glass once more, attempting to mentally shrug off the implications in his words. She noted the drizzle outside and gently commented, "...It's raining."

"Could it be the gods that mourn your upcoming death? She whom the gods love dies young."

The woman turned around and took a few steps away from the man. "_Jim_-"

"I wonder, would Sherlock cry?"

At his words, Irene's gaze flew to meet the man's and she could clearly see both amusement and intrigue in his eyes. There was something in those dark pools that the dominatrix simply couldn't read, despite her best efforts, but still found she was drawn in deeper into danger. Suddenly, Moriarty chuckled once more.

Irene raised her chin in hope of conveying an aloofness she didn't necessarily feel. "Care to clue me in on your joke?"

"It's just funny. I still don't know what the coroner will say your COD is..."

"Ah… Forgive me for not laughing," the woman said and shrugged her long coat closer to her body.

"Oh, come now. Lighten up, Ms Adler. You only die once, why not die with a laugh? How about this, I'll let you decide the cause?"

The brunette shook her head and boldly met his eyes. "I fear I have terrible news for your maniacal ego: I'm _not_ afraid to die. We're all born to die, sooner or later, after all."

"I don't think I could have said it better myself, Ms Adler," Moriarty smirked. "…Mind if I quote you post-mortem?"

"Go right ahead."

"Thank you."

"If you want more quotes, I suggest you keep me alive."

The mastermind grinned crookedly and shook his head. "It just won't do, Ms Adler."

"It was worth a try," she commented coldly and her hard eyes met Moriarty's in a sharp battle of stares. As a devilish smirk grew on the man's lips that chilled her to the bones, Irene opted for a bolder tactic. "I'm on to you. Your threat was worth nothing. If I hadn't come tonight, you still wouldn't have killed Sherlock. You love his presence too much."

Moriarty's smile fell somewhat but he played along. "And yet you didn't risk it…"

"You _can't_ kill him," the woman pointed out and smirked devilishly.

"Oh, killing him isn't the problem, darling. It's utterly and completely _destroying_ that man that's proven a bit problematic."

The truth in his words were something she didn't know how to respond to. She walked back over to the clock and her stilettos clicked against the floor as she did. Though the woman shared the criminal's love for games, this was not a game she particularly cared to keep playing.

"I _don't_ care about him, you know. Not in the way you think, at least," Irene stated dully as she listened to the drizzle splash against the glass of the dial.

Moriarty took hold of her shoulders then and turned her around to face him. She was startled by the moves as he reached one hand down to unbutton her coat. The woman stood stiff as he questioned, "Then why do you keep saving his shapely arse? He is your greatest weakness, Ms Adler."

"_I don't_-" Irene began fervently but the man interrupted her by holding up his palm to stop her and finished unbuttoning her coat.

"Question is… can you be his?"

The woman was thrown by this question and paused before uttering, "_Hardly_."

"Oh, I don't know…" Moriarty's eyes traveled over her features as if devouring her soul and life with his eyes without mercy or concern. Then, as a small smile spread across his thin lips, Irene finally read the intention in his eyes. She was too late though. At the same time he plunged a small dagger in her stomach. She gasped for air as he withdrew it and coldly began to button up her cloak once more, covering up the wound sneakily. The woman's breaths were raspy as pain spread through her abdomen and rose to numbing heights. Her wide eyes beheld Moriarty, who wasn't fazed at all, as he threw the dagger out of sight into the vast shadows of the room.

He turned back to the beautiful woman, cocked his head to the side and merely nodded in the direction of the staircase on the right. "I think maybe you can."

At that moment, Sherlock and John barged up the stairs in full speed and came to a halt upon finding the duo standing on the other end of the narrow space.

Swiftly, the detective raised his gun arm and pointed it towards Moriarty as his unblinking eyes took in the scene before him. The mad man and Irene were illuminated by the moon outside the glass clearly and stood close, however whatever conversation they had shared before his arrival had been lost on Sherlock's ears. Now, he noted that the woman hadn't turned to acknowledge their presence, but the detective could clearly see her eyes were wide and her breaths came shallow.

The criminal didn't seem surprised to see the two new arrivals as he instead spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture towards them, "Welcome, Sherlock, John! So lovely to see you both! How are you tonight?"

"Clear of mind despite your best efforts," Sherlock replied dryly and turned his gaze back to the woman. "Are you okay?... _Irene_."

She snapped out of her daze and turned to meet his eyes. The fear was written without subtext in her pale face, and this the man took as a clear warning. Irene never did anything without subtext.

"…Shoot him," she managed in a low voice and somehow this simple command was all the more haunting than if her voice had been powerful. The thought of what it might imply disturbed the Holmes man, though the feeling itself was beyond explanation to the detective's brilliant mind.

Moriarty clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as a parent might sound when expressing their disapproval towards a misbehaving child.

"Is that how you treat old friends, Ms Adler?" the mad man reached up and pinched her cheek as his smirk grew. Without warning, he then suddenly pulled a small revolver from his pocket and pressed it against her temple. John let out a stunned shout as Sherlock re-gripped his gun and took aim directly at Moriarty's head. The criminal merely tossed an amused grin in the detective's direction. "How about a game of Russian roulette, Sherlock? There are two rounds in the cylinder. Want to see if _the woman_ is as lucky as she's rumored to be?"

Without awaiting a response, Moriarty pulled the trigger. the woman violently flinched back and fell to the floor. She landed on her side and remained down. John moved to step over to her but the criminal turned his gun on the doctor, effectively stopping him mid-step.

"Uh-uh. No, no, dear. Step right back," Moriarty said and glanced down at Irene who was very much alive as her eyes flew open, though there was evident shock and an inability to focus in the two blue ponds. Sherlock felt his muscles relax momentarily before his fingers clenched tight around the gun once more.

Moriarty smirked at the doctor. "Step back now, Mr Watson, or we try another round of roulette, and this time Ms Adler's chances won't be as good."

"Alright, _alright!_ I'm stepping back, lower the gun…!" the blond man raised his hands to signal his retreat and swiftly moved to stand on Sherlock's left again.

The mad man's smirk spoke volumes of his dark intentions as he merely asked, "Do you want to play another round?"

"Not really," the detective replied. "I've already grown tired of this game."

"Yeah, me too…" the other man nodded and shrugged as he swiftly pocketed the revolver once more. The changeable nature of Jim Moriarty was never easy to understand or foresee.

"What do you want, Jim?" Sherlock asked, still without lowering his gun.

"What I always want. To wreak a little havoc, my dear," Moriarty shrugged and then nodded down at the shacking woman. "And to kill her, of course. Or now, as it seems, all of you."

"You won't succeed," John said boldly as he gazed from Irene, who still remained down, and up at the mad criminal. "As you never do."

"Not entirely true, Dr Watson," Moriarty argued and casually placed his hands in his pants pockets once more. "I always succeed. I'm _always_ Mr Sex. You're just too dull to see it."

"Maybe," the short man agreed. "Or maybe what I see is that Sherlock is always cleverer than you."

"No, he's not," Moriarty argued.

"Yes, I am," Sherlock bit back.

"No-"

"Let's call it a draw," John interrupted as he concluded that both men could continue arguing over that particular fact forever unless he nipped it at the bud.

Moriarty smirked and winked at his nemesis, before turning down to gaze at Irene lying by his feet. He turned his grin on Sherlock and the detective frowned in response. The look on Moriarty's face spoke of a victory that he couldn't quite deduce. He was concerned, too, since the shocked woman still had to stand from the ground and her shallow breaths came swifter by the minute.

"Don't misinterpret this, Dr Watson," Moriarty began then and grimaced as he turned to the third man, "but this isn't turning out to be as fun as I thought. Maybe I'll let you live for now."

"You're giving up?" John asked.

"No. I'm just…" the criminal glanced down at the woman briefly, "-… letting you live to die another day."

While Sherlock could feel, rather than hear, his friend's relieved breath, Moriarty's words only made the detective clench the gun in his hands tighter.

"Well, I'd better be off…" the mad man said casually but just as he turned to leave towards the left stair case, the detective raised his gun and pointed it steadfast towards the criminal consultant.

"Not. This. Time," Sherlock breathed slowly and watched as a slow smile spread on Moriarty's lips and a dark glint ignited in the man's pale eyes as he turned back. He was obviously thrilled to be challenged and seemed to have been expecting nothing less.

"Oh, Sherlock, I think you will…" the man said in a calm voice which merely elevated his nemesis' anxiety. "I go, or we all die."

"Another trick, Jim? I know you have no henchmen with you tonight, you have no back-up. You can't stop me," Sherlock's dark voice was relentless.

Moriarty shook his head and looked over at the dark-haired man with a disapproving look. "You're still so far behind, Sherlock, it's not funny. You've started to bore me… Since when do I come unprepared? But let's not get _fired_ _up_ over it, shall we? This party _blows_ already."

John's eyes widened as he turned to his friend. "He rigged it. He's rigged the goddamn bell tower!"

"_Good_, Mr Watson. Very good, indeed," Moriarty seemed genuienly approving of the doctor's deduction. "I thought it would be a fitting end for Ms Adler. The woman on fire consumed by fire. Get it, John? Or would you like me to show you instead?"

"No! No," the doctor raised his hands as if the gesture would calm everyone down. "Let's not blow up anything tonight."

The criminal turned his gaze back to Sherlock and there was a wordless conversation between the pair. The criminal master mind glanced down at his hand in his pocket pointedly and then up at the gun in the other man's strong hand.

"The great bell of Westminster has always tolled since its completion, Sherlock. It's seen many wars and years come to pass. Still, it chimes. But I can end that _tonight__. _I can _kill Ben_ tonight. I was only intending Ms Adler to die alongside him, but killing three flies in one hand is better than just the one," the man shrugged. "Unless you let me go."

The detective hesitated a second before glancing at John by his side who seemed to hold his breath awaiting his decision. A short nod was all the encouragement the blond man offered as Sherlock reluctantly lowered his gun.

"Run then, if you must."

Moriarty's grin was crooked and wicked as he backed off into the shadows and soon disappeared down the stairs on the other end of the room. Sherlock distantly held out the gun towards his friend. "Make sure he doesn't change his mind," the man commanded and John nodded distantly as he took the weapon and hurried after the criminal mastermind. Left alone in the small area, Sherlock hurried over to the woman and knelt on the floor next to her.

She reached out a trembling hands towards him and he attempted to read the unfocused fear in her eyes. He opened his mouth to ask when a voice echoed from somewhere down the stairs.

"_Sherlock!_" it was John's terrified voice.

Fear gripped the man's throat as he jumped from the ground and yelled back, "John!"

Whatever his friend had attempted to warn him of, soon became abundantly obvious as the entire tower shook from a loud explosion further down. Sherlock felt the warmth before he saw the flames lick the walls as they climbed up the stairs and into the small area. The pressure wave that followed threw the detective backwards. Rubble and stone flew all around him and Irene as parts of the wall that hid the mechanics toppled over, narrowly missing their bodies. Sherlock landed hard on the ground and felt the air knocked from his lungs as well as a ringing sound in his ears that seemed to dull all other noises. He glanced about and saw that the woman lay immobile to the side on the burning floor and a cloud of dust floated in the air between them.

"_John_!" Sherlock bellowed once more and crawled towards the stairs as he attempted to get to his feet. The smoke filled his lungs and he coughed when suddenly a second explosion rocked the tower once more. The man knew what it meant, Moriarty must have set a chain of bombs to prevent their escape. This time the flames were relentless as they climbed the stairs and towards Sherlock.

The pressure wave threw the man roughly into the glass of the clock wall and his head smashed into the hard surface. As he fell towards the ground once more, the room faded in and out of darkness.

Sherlock was barely aware of the chaos around him. The flaming wood flying through the air, the glass of the clock shattering to pieces and the entire roof above their head shaking to join in the crescendo of Moriarty's game. There was no way of knowing just what damage had occurred, only that their was commotion everywhere in the bell tower.

The last thing the detective noted before darkness entirely consumed him was the utter devastation of the area and his last thought was one of concern for both John and Irene. Then, suddenly, there was nothing.

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><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	9. Aftermath

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9: Aftermath<strong>

A shrill ringing sound echoed between Sherlock's ears and it seemed to drown out all other noise in the detective's proximity. His eardrums felt pierced, too, as a sharp pain shot through the inside of his head, like a flash of thunder from one ear to the other.

He drew a sharp intake of breath at the unexpected pain and took a second to evaluate his conditon further. His chest hurt as well, possibly a broken rib, and his back was sore as hell. It at least beat being dead, Sherlock thought to himself. He drew another shuddering breath and as he did, dust and soot travelled into his lungs. He coughed at the sudden dry itch and the pain in his chest intensified.

"Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock? Are you there?"

Sherlock barely heard the voice and struggled to place it. It was familiar, but who could it be? It was a man's voice but not John's, and obviously not Moriarty's. Suddenly, he recognized the friendly, familiar voice and opened his eyes swiftly. He was grateful the light from the night outside was dark and clouded, and not bright and glaring, as pain filled his eyes. For a second he had a hard time focusing, like a microscope that needs to be adjusted to focus the lens.

As the foggy images cleared, the man made out a figure kneeling above him clad in a heavy robe and with grey hair atop its head. "L-Lestrade? Where's John, Lestrade? _Where is John_?"

He moved to sit but a firm hand atop his shoulder stopped him. "Take it easy, Sherlock," Lestrade said gently. "John's alive. He's a bit bruised up, but honestly, you seem worse for wear. Are you okay?"

"_Fine_," the dark-haired man assured shortly and determinedly sat up to look about him.

He noted that the bell tower seemed to be mostly ruins, as he gazed about. The entire floor was covered with debris, ash, glass or the remains of half a wall. Up above his head, there were several giant holes in the sceptre roof which allowed the moon light to shine through. The giant clock dial was almost entirely missing, glass and metal strewn about everywhere in the small space. Sherlock suspected the damage looked worse from the outside, however. Moriarty certainly had done a number on the great bell tower, and it seemed a miracle it was still standing. Moriarty was right in one thing, though, it would be a long while before the bell tolled after tonight.

Glancing about him, the detective quickly came aware that Irene was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's the woman?" Sherlock asked still somewhat groggy to the head. Lestrade's frown was the only answer the consultant detective needed.

"What woman?"

"Never mind," he muttered and struggled to stand up amid the debris. "Moriarty?"

"Gone," Lestrade's tone of voice was short and it seemed plain to the other man that the DI wished he had been able to give a more positive reply to this particular question. "Are you going to explain this, Sherlock?"

The tall man frowned. "Probably. Just not to you. Is my dear brother here yet?"

It was the grey-haired man's turn to be confused. "How did you know?"

Sherlock managed to throw the somewhat elder police an impatient glare. "Big Ben just exploded. Of course my brother wants part in the action. Take me to him."

Lestrade hesitated briefly before conceding to the younger man's request. "He's with John anyway. Come on. _Careful_, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>Sherlock's hearing was still somewhat impaired and the ringing noise had yet to disappear when he and Lestrade finally exited the bell tower and entered the hectic streets of London. Outside, the entire street was lit up by the red and blue lights of police cars and fire trucks. People were running everywhere in an attempt to minimize the damages done in the night on the bell tower. Sherlock glanced up and saw the bell tower almost entirely clouded in the billowing smoke of recently extinguished fires and the smell of it all penetrated his nose.<p>

Lestrade led the man away from the most hectic part of the crime scene and towards an ambulance parked close to the river. Sherlock's heart elated as he saw Mary's bright red coat amid the chaos. The blonde woman was standing beside the ambulance and the beaten up shape of John, the latter sat at the back of the ambulance with a blanket thrown about his shoulders.

"John," the dark-haired man breathed as they came closer. Lestrade patted Sherlock's back once and then made his exit to continue with his own work.

"Sherlock!" the short man called, portraying all the relief Sherlock felt inside. The doctor jumped off the back of the ambulance and the detective noted the other man limped as he hurried to meet him. John embraced him in a brotherly hug of immense relief. "Oh thank god…"

Sherlock smiled down at his friend's warm loyalty before he tugged himself free. He took hold on either of John's shoulders and forced the shorter man to meet his gaze head on. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," the blond smiled and the other man could see that although the doctor was beaten up, bloody and torn, he was telling the truth.

Mary waddled forward then and her concerned eyes gazed up at the tall man with her motherly affection shining through strong. "How are _you_, Sherlock?"

"Mary. You're getting rather large now, aren't you?" the man replied.

The woman grinned as one of her hands reached for her huge baby bump and her eyes sparkled. "See, John. He can't be that bad, when his mouth is that fast."

He flashed the pregnant woman a grateful smile. John frowned and looked around his friend and wife, as if expecting to see something. When his eyes didn't find what they were looking for, he turned back to the detective expectantly. "Where is, eh-"

The other man swiftly interrupted, not wanting the wrong pair of ears to overhear them, "Not here."

"Ah… I see," the doctor's face fell and he quieted at once, sharing a look with the blonde woman beside him.

"John… What happened?" Sherlock asked and guided his friend back to the ambulance, Mary close behind. The short man sat back down and a wave of relief washed over his face as he was allowed to unload the weight off his foot.

"Mary's been asking me about it, helped jog my memory. There's was a wire, Sherlock," he began and frowned to remember the details. "I didn't see it because of the dark. I was too busy trying to keep up with Moriarty. I ran straight into it and set off the bombs. _Dammit_."

Mrs John Watson placed an arm around her hubby's shoulders and leaned in close. "It doesn't matter. From the sound of it, Moriarty would have set off the bombs from a remote device, even if you hadn't run into any wire."

"Still…," John disagreed and glanced up at the moonlit remains of the bell tower. "I… I can't believe he destroyed Big Ben."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when another dry voice interrupted. "You had better believe it, John."

From the shadows of the night, Mycroft Holmes appeared, dressed in a flawless suit and an umbrella resting in his hand. The man's perfect appearance seemed a stark contrast to his brother's torn, bloody and beaten up look. Mycroft stopped by his brother's side. "It won't be easy to cover this up, I assure you. ...Sherlock."

The detective nodded stiffly. "Mycroft."

The elder man's face was impassive as he looked his younger brother once over and commented, "I see you're well."

"Just fine, thank you," Sherlock smiled grimly. "You're awfully sentimental today."

"Oh, shut up, brother," Mycroft sighed. "John said it was Moriarty. Where did the criminal escape to?"

It was Sherlock's time to sigh. "If I knew that, don't you think I would have already told you, brother?"

The elder Holmes boy glared at his brother with nothing but disappointment in his pale, cold eyes. "You let him get away again, didn't you?"

John interrupted in defense of his friend, "Hold on. Moriarty said he was going to blow up Big Ben if we didn't. Sherlock only-"

Mycroft spoke up before the doctor could finish, "He _did_ blow up the bell tower. Sometimes, Sherlock, I think you're…"

The man's voice trailed off into the night. The unspoken words were clear as daylight to Sherlock, who merely nodded. Of course Mycroft would blame the destruction of the bell tower on his younger brother's inability to prevent the criminal master mind. The surprise to find out Jim Moriarty was alive, it seemed, also rested on Sherlock's shoulders. "I know, Mycroft."

"Well, I'd better do my job and cover up _your _mess. _Again_, one might add."

The detective smiled falsely and bit back, "Yes, one might."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side and his cold eyes were dead set on Sherlock. "Just one more question, brother… Was there just the three of you up there? You, John and Moriarty? The DI – Lestrade, was it? – told me you mentioned a woman."

Sherlock pretended not to understand. "What woman?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

The other man shook his head in mock confusion. "No, I'm sure I was the one who asked that question."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in his own brotherly way of exasperation. "Honestly, Sherlock…"

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes sighed. He had obviously surrendered to the fact that he would get no better reply from his brother this time. "Right. Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll come around your place when I've dealt with this."

"Please do. We can have tea to go with your new-found sentimentality."

Mycroft acted as if he had not heard his brother's last words and turned to the other two at last. "Goodbye, John. Mary."

John seemed taken aback as he nodded shortly. "Uh-huh… bye!"

Without further delay, Mycroft walked off into the darkness of the London night once more in search of Lestrade. As Sherlock turned to look out at the Thames, Mary watched the elder Holmes man disappear into the smoke in the distance and huffed, "Could the stick up his butt rise any higher, you think?"

The detective snickered and turned back to his friends with an endearing smile, "Honestly, Mary... I doubt that's possible."

The smile on John's face faded quickly as he gazed up at the dark-haired man, "Sherlock, you're bleeding from the ear!"

The man raised a hand to his right ear and felt something warm touch his fingers. When he lowered his hand once more, his fingertips were covered with the red liquid. "I'm fine."

John refused to accept his friends reassurance. "No, you're not."

"Stop playing the doctor, John-"

The short man held up one hand to stop his friend and pointed out, "I _am _a doctor, Sherlock. I know you don't want to, but we're not going anywhere until the paramedics have a look at you."

Sherlock considered his options to maintain his stance, but as Mary shook her head behind her husband's back, the man caved. With a short intake of air he turned away from them and stiffly replied, "…Fine."

"_Impossible_," John remarked with a sigh and the detective rolled his eyes with his back still turned to his friends.

* * *

><p>It was almost two hours later when the paramedics finally released John and Sherlock after a thorough check-up. Sherlock's eardrum had indeed been pierced the slightest, a few ribs bruised, but other than that and a concussion, he was well enough to go home. John, meanwhile, had been luckier with mostly bruises and a severe sprain of his ancle instead. Over all, the two had been lucky to get out of the explosions mostly unscathed, a fact Mary kept repeating.<p>

Beaten up and bruised after the night's adventures, the duo and the blonde woman leaned back in the backseat of a cab as it drove them to Baker Street. As the street lights flashed by the window, the men sat silently next to each other, each man lost in deep thoughts of their own.

After a couple of minutes, John inhaled deeply and turned to gaze at his friend. The other man's eyes were lost in another dimension entirely. The doctor knew he was treading dangerous grounds, but still had to ask. He raised his voice somewhat due to the fact that he sat on the side of Sherlock's wounded ear. "Sherlock? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Shock," was the simple reply he got.

John frowned and looked about him as if he had missed some vital piece of information in the night around them. Mary shrugged from his other side and she leaned over to ask, "What?"

Sherlock gazed firmly out the window as he continued, "She was in shock. Visibly shaking, pale skin, short breaths, pupils dilated. All signs of shock."

The doctor didn't quite get what his friend was getting at. "…Okay?"

"She was in shock _when we arrived_, John. _Before_ Moriarty's game of Russian roulette."

The blond man shrugged and recalled his own first encounter with the criminal. "She was under threat of death, Sherlock. Can put anyone in a shock. I was, when Moriarty strapped a bomb on me. Remember?"

Mary's head whipped in her husband's direction as her grip around his hand tightened. "He did _what?"_

_"Oh..._ I hadn't mentioned that, honey?"

The woman sighed but plainly let it slide for now, as she commented, "No. It must have slipped your mind, darling. Then again, your past is your business, right?"

The detective by the window turned back to look at his friends. "This was different."

"How?"

Sherlock hesitated a beat. "I don't know."

Truth was, he had a theory about the woman, but it was none he cared to share with John or Mary at the current time. If this was because he didn't want to worry them if he was wrong, or if he indeed worried his guess was correct, the man wasn't sure himself. Despite his silence, the couple seemed to understand what went unsaid.

"You…" John cleared his throat and his eyes flickered to read the impassiveness in Sherlock's face. "… Do you think we'll see her again?"

The detective inhaled deeply and considered his friend's question. At length, Sherlock solemnly shook his head. "No... I don't know."

"There's a lot you don't know when it concerns Irene Adler," the doctor pointed out with a small smile.

The dark-haired man smiled joylessly. If only his friend knew how right he was. "_That_ I do know."

* * *

><p>Finally, after what felt like half of an eternity, the trio reached the familiar door of 221 B. John tiredly unlocked the door with his spare key and the three of them entered the house on weary legs.<p>

John and Mary watched as the tall man wordlessly ascended the stairs without removing his torn coat first. The shorter man sighed as he removed his own jacket and hung it up, despite it being basically torn to pieces and beyond repair. With limping steps, John slowly made his own way up the stairs with his wife close behind. They two of them had decided earlier to stay the night in John's old bedroom, to not leave the detective alone.

As the blond man came closer to the top of the stairs, he noticed Sherlock's immobile shape in the living room. For a second, John's heart broke for the other man were he stood like a haunted figure illuminated by the lamp above. He figured his friend was more worried and upset about Irene's absence then he let on, especially considering what he had just implicated in the cab drive over.

However, as John reached the top of the stairs, he realized there was something wrong with the image before him. Sherlock's unblinking gaze was fixed on something on the floor and when the other man followed his line of sight, he realized just what had the detective transfixed and immobilized.

"Oh my God!" the doctor breathed and ignored the pain in his foot as he dashed into the living room, followed closely by Mary.

In the middle of the room lay Irene herself, sprawled out in a heap on her back. In plain sight upon the stomach of her coat was a large, red spot. Her still form sent fear rushing through John's veins. He watched as Mary knelt by her side and her fingers searched the woman's throat to find a pulse. The blonde woman exhaled in relief and turned to nod up at the two men. "There's a pulse."

The couple noticed the stiffness in Sherlock's neck and his wide eyes as he glared down at Irene. The detached look in his eyes made John doubt that the detective had even heard the good news.

The doctor jumped into action instead, turning back to the slim woman on the floor. As he, too, knelt beside her, he realized Irene's breaths came short and shallow. The blond doctor rolled up his sleeves before unbuttoning her coat to carefully examine the wound on her stomach. He drew a sharp breath and exchanged a look with his wife as he saw the stab wound on the side of her body. If Irene Adler was lucky, the knife had missed all vital organs, but if she wasn't… John decided to keep that piece of information to himself.

"Call an ambulance!" he breathed as he applied pressure on her wound.

"No."

Both Mary and John's heads shot around and with wide eyes they gazed up at the impassive man, who still had not moved a muscle of sentiment for the dying woman on the living room carpet. Sometimes, John couldn't understand his friend one bit, and sometimes he simply didn't want to understand. "What do you mean _no?_ Sherlock?"

The tall man seemed to be drawn from his trance as he blinked and started to pace the length of the living room. "We can't take her to the hospital, John."

Mary still couldn't believe her ears and she frowned up at the man. "What do you want us to do, _take her to the vet_?"

Sherlock shook his head and stopped pacing. His piercing, blue eyes met Mary's across the small room. For a second, John thought the man allowed them to see a deep abyss of agony in the windows to Sherlock's well-guarded soul. Half-begging, half-ordering, the detective said in a deep, throaty whisper, "She has to remain hidden. For her own safety. You could tend to her, John. It's what you do, after all. Mary, you could help, couldn't you?"

The blond man shook his head and glanced down at his blood-covered hands. "Are you completely bonkers? I don't even have proper equipment here!"

Sherlock nodded distantly and then pulled out his phone from his coat pocket. John breathed in relief as his friend dialed a number, having finally come to his senses. The tall man pressed the phone to his good ear and once more paced impatiently across the carpet. After a few seconds he stopped and the words he uttered next had a baffled John drop his jaw in astonished fury.

"Molly?" Sherlock spoke into the phone. "Hi. Yes, it's Sherlock. Listen, I know I don't ask very often, but… do you want to come over perhaps? Right now. I know, it's late. Very late. … Really? Yes, the sooner the better. Yeah, no. Great… Oh, and could you be an angel and bring some medical equipment?"

John sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation as he looked at his wife. This was going to be one of _those _nights.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	10. The duel of Irene and Mycroft

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>10. The duel of Irene and Mycroft<strong>

Molly sat in one of the armchairs in Sherlock's living room, both hands resting on the armrests and her shoulders slumped low. On the small table on her right a cup of steaming tea stood untouched. On the opposite side of the room, in his own armchair, the peculiar detective sat in silence and gazed out at the empty nothingness of the night. The woman could see the wheels in his head turn, but whether it was to find the proper way to explain himself, or if it was concern for the injured woman in his bedroom, Molly wasn't sure. Though she dreaded it was in fact the last.

"You know…" she said at length as the couple entered their thirtieth minute of silence. "…When you asked me to come over, I admit, I sort of thought you had something else in mind."

Sherlock's eyes flashed up to meet hers then and Molly realized it was the first time he mentally registered her presence since her arrival tonight. He had been so pre-occuppied with the medical equipment that he had forgotten about the messenger. It seemed it had taken her own acknowledgment for the man to realize his mannerisms, too. It reminded Molly of when she had caught Sherlock looking sad and bothered as soon as John's back was to him almost three years earlier in the middle of the worst Moriarty circus.

The guilt was evident in the man's face now as he lowered his gaze in search of the right words. "I'm sorry, Molly… I just had to get help quickly."

The young woman smiled joylessly and felt her heart constrict as it seemed to do often when mistreated by the man in question. "And so you called _me_. Your friend. Chap. Buddy. Reliable Molly. I get it, I do. It's just… sometimes it's not so easy."

She didn't have to say it out loud, they both knew of her old infatuation. It was silly really, Molly knew. They had been friends (if one could truly befriend Sherlock) for ages, and she had been harboring emotions with him for almost as long, though he had never shared her sentiment even the slightest. When he had asked her to help him fake his suicide, she had felt special for the first time. Like he actually cared for her. During the years he was gone, she had met and fallen in love with Tom, a lovely man who had eventually asked her to marry him. The engagement hadn't lasted very long after Sherlock returned, for various reasons. Not the least because Molly had realized just how similar the two men were. She hadn't been moving on, as she first had figured. She wasn't sure if the old infatuation still existed, but the detective remained a vital part of her life nonetheless, in a way that Tom never could. It had been better for both of them when the relationship had ended.

"Molly… I…" Sherlock began as he saw the look in Molly's eyes withdraw even further into herself. Somehow, he could never do the right thing when it came to Ms Molly Hooper and their friendship. She was a dear friend of his, but nothing more. The man had always been aware of her feelings, and had taken advantage of this fact several times to get what he wanted, and indeed knew he could not have faked his death without her help. The man opened his mouth to explain the night's events though without knowing how.

He was interrupted as the bedroom door opened and John walked into the living room. The red liquid smeared all over him, as well as the smell of blood was all Sherlock noticed as he stiffly gazed up at his friend.

"She's stable. For now," the doctor stated as he noticed the terror rise up in his friend like the tide. He then turned to Molly with a tired smile. "Thank you for bringing the equipment so quickly, Molly. I… If she lives she has _you_ to thank for that."

The woman smiled. "And you and your wife, John. Don't forget that… I should go now, since I'm no longer wanted. _Needed_. I mean 'no longer needed'."

The young woman covered the fact that her face flushed red by her own clumsy comment, by standing hastily from the armchair and avoided the gazes of the other men. Sherlock mimicked her movement as she stood and awkwardly began, "Molly…"

She smiled bravely up at the tall man and raised her shields up high. The smile was genuine, yet weak, as she said, "It's fine. Really. …Now I really ought to go, Sherlock. It's late, after all. Keep the equipment. I'm glad it helped. I hope your girlfriend recovers fully. You know you can call me anytime if you need me."

The detective smiled down at his friend and stepped forward to say his farewell but the young scientist raised a hand and took a definite step back. Sherlock stopped and John remained silently to the side, trying not to disturb the awkward peace.

"Goodbye," was Molly's last word as she turned on her heel and walked out from Baker Street without further ado.

As the front door closed, Sherlock stood, somewhat dumb-founded, in the center of the living room while John gazed at him from the sidelines.

"You… " the blond man cleared his throat and drew attention to himself. "…alright?"

The detective recovered smoothly as he turned to his friend with an unreadable look on his face. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

John smiled up at his friend. "Do you want to see her? She's not awake, of course, but I figure you want to inspect my stitch work before Mary covers it with bandages."

"I do."

* * *

><p>Irene awoke with a start. She was for a brief second disoriented and lost, until her eyes got used to the dark room lit by a smaller lamp on a nightstand by her head. This was Sherlock's bedroom, this was <em>home<em>.

The woman tried to remember how she had gotten there, but found her memory failed her in that respect. She remembered being at the bell tower and Moriarty's mad plan. The last thing she remembered in detail was the knife the mad man had plunged into her body. As if on cue, pain flashed through her abdomen and she groaned.

She lifted the covers and gazed down at her stomach, but stopped short. She was surprised to find she was suddenly wearing pajamas and the wound was dressed and stitched.

"Mary changed your clothes," spoke a dulcet voice and the woman lowered the covers and gazed up. Over by the window, stood Sherlock himself, illuminated by the street lights below. The man, too, was dressed in his pj's and wine-colored robe.

"You were there…" she said as the mist in her memories cleared slowly. "And John."

Sherlock nodded and the woman asked, "What happened? I remember… Fires. Or was that just a side-effect of the MDMA?"

"No. Moriarty blew up Big Ben. London will never be quite the same," the detective said grimly. "He escaped, of course. I'm surprised you managed to get out, too. And I mean despite the fact that I noticed the escape path of footprints from your stilettos running down the right stair case, which was hardly touched by the explosions, or the drops of blood smeared across the soot on the walls."

The brunette smiled and winked up at the handsome man. "Yes, well, despite that… I'm surprised I can still surprise you."

"Oh, I doubt you'll ever stop," Sherlock smiled back and this time it was a genuine expression. Before Irene's tired mind could deduce anything from it, the man swirled around to gaze out at the night once more. "John and Mary performed surgery on you right here after your miraculous escape. You've been out five hours since. John said the knife missed all vital organs, but you did lose some blood. Thankfully, Molly brought not only equipment but snatched blood bags, too. You look dreadful, either way."

The woman chuckled silently. "'Dread' is still better than 'dead'."

"That it is," Sherlock's low mutter was almost too low to hear and he still refused to turn back to her . "John says I… owe you a thank you."

"Oh, I had to," Irene smiled and waited until the tall man turned around with a questioning frown upon his brow. "What would the world do, after all, without Sherlock Holmes and his mind palace? ...You're welcome."

"I never _said_ thank you. I merely pointed out that John thought I _ought to_ say it to you."

The woman nodded in acceptance. She knew it was as close to an actual declaration of gratitude she was going to get.

The man slowly walked over to the bed and sunk back against his pillows with a strained sigh. Irene noticed the cuts and scrapes across his face then, too. She reached out a pale hand to gently follow the outlines of a shallow cut that ran from the tip of his forehead to the corner of his eyebrow.

"You look dreadful, too," she pointed out and Sherlock let out an amused breath in response.

* * *

><p>The following two days passed more calmly at Baker Street than before the events at Big Ben, despite the paradox of the situation. While Irene was restricted to bed-rest by her doctor, Sherlock followed the news about the explosive events carefully. Mycroft had made a good job covering up the truth about what happened at the bell tower by having news leak about the old, clock which malfunctioned because of an old damage from a thunder storm which hadn't been secured properly. Eventually, a fuse had blown and a fire spread quickly at the top of the tower until it reached the machinery and a smaller explosion had followed suit.<p>

The whole world, it seemed, had more or less swallowed the lie, and Sherlock had to agree; making up cover stories had always been one of Mycroft's strong sides.

Even where there were doubters there seemed to be no one who suspected that it had been a criminal master mind's flawed plan to take out a dominatrix that had set the bell tower aflame. Sherlock figured chaos would follow if the world knew, much as what had happened two years prior when Moriarty mysteriously had managed to break into the Bank of England, the Tower of London and the Pentaville Prison – all at the same time.

As Irene slowly recovered, she spent most of her time asleep, either because of the frailty of her physical health or because of the pain killers John provided her with. Sherlock and John, too, rapidly improved. Both were rather grateful for some peace after their near-death experience.

One day after a quiet dinner that had been shared at Baker Street with Mary and John, the detective noticed his best friend type on his laptop. The man walked over to sneak a peek as the two women were in Sherlock's bedroom, chatting while Irene rested. As he saw what his friend was writing, Sherlock slammed the laptop shut. John's fingers got caught in between and he yelped both in surprise and pain.

"Ow! Sherlock!"

The detective moved around the chair to face his friend and pulled the laptop from John's arms. "What do you think you were doing?"

"Updating my blog. Could you give my computer back? I was just making a short entry before Mary and I was leaving."

"You're _not_ writing a blog entry about '_T__he mental deterioration of Mr Holmes'_. I won't let you."

The blond man rubbed his sore fingers and glared up at his tall friend. "Your fans deserve to know the _whole story_. It's _my_ blog, Sherlock. Why do you care? You have your own website. Give me back my laptop."

The doctor held out a hand patiently, but Sherlock merely raised his chin in defiance and stepped back. "No."

John tilted his head sideways. "No?"

"I'm confiscating it until you reach the proper conclusion not to write an inappropriate blog entry about my drug-induced state."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Stop acting like a baby and give it back!"

"No!... And I'm not acting like a baby," Sherlock said as he held the computer above his head, despite the fact that the wounded John had still to rise from his seat.

"Yes, you are! Give it here!"

"_No_!"

"Am I interrupting something, _children_?"

The men both turned to gaze towards the top of the stairs. There stood Mycroft with his arms crossed over his chest in a laid-back stance. The ice cold man didn't seem the least bit impressed to have walked in on John and Sherlock' childish behavior.

"Mycroft," the doctor greeted and put the laptop down on the desk where his friend couldn't reach it from his seat. "You should have called ahead. I could have prepared tea for you."

"Or happy pills," John muttered while his friend sniggered like a school boy. Mycroft rolled his eyes with a deep sigh.

"This isn't a social visit," the elder man clarified.

"Oh?" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. This could be interesting. "What do you want, brother?"

Something shone in the elder man's pale eyes. The detective recognized it as a look of superiority and wit, a look his brother saved for special occasions when he held the trumphcard. Mycroft slowly entered the living room to stand nose to nose with his younger brother.

"I'm here to see someone special," the man commented slyly and Sherlock frowned. "I'm here to see Ms Irene Adler."

The detective noted how John's wide eyes glanced towards the closed bedroom door behind Mycroft's back, but Sherlock himself kept his face impassive. He had been prepared for this day to arrive sooner or later, one could hold Ms Adler a secret for only so long. Since she had recently run around town to deduce the truth of Sherlock's mental health and up to the top of Big Ben which had exploded as a consequence, the man couldn't say he was surprised his brother had followed her trail to Baker Street.

"Why would the legendary Ms Adler be _here_ at Baker Street? I thought she was in America," Sherlock commented with no intention to admit the truth. It was unfortunate that the woman in question was injured so brutally for there was no way for her to sneak out through his bedroom window, even with the help of Mary.

"Don't play stupid, Sherlock, it never did suit you," Mycroft scolded with a brotherly look to his pale eyes.

"I assure you, brother, I couldn't play stupid even if I tried," the man replied gruffly and walked over to sit down in his armchair by the fireplace and picked up his violin that rested beside it. "The woman's not here. I didn't know she was in town, and I wouldn't care even if I had known."

Mycroft grimaced and sighed, "Why don't I believe you? If you're harboring an enemy of the kingdom, you'll be in more trouble than you know."

"Then I'm lucky I'm not," Sherlock replied shortly as he started to play an irritated tune.

"I'll find her, you know," the elder man pointed out and the detective was unsure if it was a reassurance or a threat. "With or without your help."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort in jest, when he noticed from the corner of his eyes how his bedroom door slowly opened. The wondered if he was helpless to watch as a train derailed from its tracks. He shut his mouth in silent anticipation of what was to come.

First he saw the blonde woman exit, with a doubtful look upon her face as all the men turned towards her. Mary glanced back as _The woman_ stepped out with head held high and posture as demanding as if she didn't carry twelve stitches on her abdomen. There was no sign of agony as she walked through the kitchen and towards the eldest brother Holmes, while Mary sat down on the arm rest by her husband.

The eldest Holmes sighed as the smaller form of Irene Adler came to a brave halt before him. It seemed all brotherly concern he had portrayed was wiped clean as the woman entered the scene.

"No need to search further, Mr Holmes."

"Ms Adler," Mycroft greeted darkly and glanced at his brother before glaring down at the woman dressed in slacks and a purple, long-sleeved tee. "I heard you had returned. I thought my brother might be hiding you."

"I'm impressed," Irene mocked. "You must have been good at hide and seek as a child. Tell me, did you always find the other children after a month?"

John and Mary exchanged a look at the woman's audaciousness. One could always expect her fire to burn fierce and high, even when she was physically wounded and weakened.

"How have you been, Mycroft? Miss me?" she asked teasingly.

The man's gaze spoke volumes of the disapproval he felt regarding her behavior. "You did a good job covering up the truth abot your time in Karachi and your return to London, Ms Adler. Though, of course, truth had to be out eventually. I had hoped my brother would do the right thing for once and not takes sides with a deported criminal."

Irene's smile did not reach her furious eyes as she spoke next, "Your brother did do the right thing."

"Then we see it differently, Ms Adler," Mycroft commented with a similar cold smile. "I look at the results. They reveal that your presence here blew up a national treasure and once more endangered Sherlock and John."

The woman glanced at the detective and arched a slim eyebrow before turning back. Sherlock finally surrendered his fear as he put his violin away and leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show.

"You underestimated your brother, Mr Holmes. And Moriarty, too," Irene pointed out and it was clear she would not hold back this time. "_Your_ wrong doing nearly resulted in your brother's death once. Tell me… how is your guilty conscience?"

Mycroft puffed out his chest but refrained from stooping to her level of attack. "I see you assume without having all the facts. Quite reminds me of Sherlock," he admitted in a gruff voice.

"Why, thank you, dear," the woman cooed.

"I would never mean it as a compliment," the elder man assured. Sherlock could see the change of tactic in his brother's eyes. "Ms Adler, I'm not entirely sure when or why you returned-"

Irene didn't let him finish, "_But I have regardless_. And I rather intend to stay."

"With my brother?"

Sherlock interrupted from his seat, "Undecided."

John nodded from his own position as Mary quipped, "The vote on that is next Tuesday."

Mycroft pretended he had not heard either of the remarks as his gaze burned down on Irene relentlessly. "For your own good, I suggest you leave London for good, Ms Adler. Or I'll deport you for a much longer time than that. You broke our agreement upon your return. I'll feel no regret if I threw you to the lions' den without making sure you're safe like I did last time."

Something akin to purest fury flashed in the woman's eyes and she took another bold step forward, now entering his mental and physical personal space. From the grimace on Mycroft's face, it was clear he wasn't too pleased with her sudden approach. Meanwhile, Sherlock scooted to the edge of his seat as he watched for warning signs of fatigue or overexertion from Irene.

"You broke our _agreement_ first, Mr Holmes. You broke it when you let pakistanian terrorists kidnap and torture me in preparation for my last day on this earth. I would be dead, too, if your baby brother hadn't saved the day. I don't believe you'd have shed a tear if I had died then."

Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised to learn of this unexpected turn of events relating to Irene's adventures in Karachi. Sherlock's interference was obviously not something the man had been made aware of, but rather the missing piece of the puzzle he had searched for. He turned to his younger brother with a commanding look, "Is that true, Sherlock?"

The detective contemplated the question. "I believe it is. You don't cry. Ever."

Mycroft shook his head in irritation of his brother's childish antics, "_Sherlock_."

"Mr Holmes," Irene interrupted before the man could berate his brother further, "I don't intend to raise any hell, but tempt me and I promise you we shall dine comfortably together in the heat of the flames. You will do best not to underestimate me like you do your brother. I may not have leverage for now, but trifle things such as photographic evidence is easily fixed. Wouldn't you agree, _Ice Man_?"

The elder Holmes' inner struggle was evident as he contemplated her words with much difficulty. "What are you suggesting, Ms Adler?"

"Leave me to my own doings, and I'll do my best not to misbehave," the brunette explained in a low, demanding voice. "Cross me and I make no such garanties. As for me living with your brother… well, let's leave that up to me as well, no?"

It was with an air of finality and defeat Mycroft at length surrendered and thus lost the duel. " …Very well. You drive a hard bargain, Ms Adler. Just as I remember. I'll leave you to your own _for now. _I'll let you play house, if that's what you wish. I'll simply have to wait until my brother tires of you, or you of him. I'm sure either one won't be far."

Sherlock let out an amused breath. "I wouldn't hold my breath, Mycroft."

The detective stood from his armchair and positioned himself by Irene's right, his shoulder brushed hers and this didn't go unnoticed. The elder brother sighed in great despair once more. "So she is yours then?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion, "She's not for sale."

"Sort of sounded like you just marked your territory, Sherlock…" Mary breathed from her seat.

"Shut up, Mary."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you. I believe I overestimated your heart, after all."

"What are you talking about?" the detective was lost by the other man's implication.

"_The woman_… The nickname. It _was_ always an homage, wasn't it?" the elder man's knowing smile was evident. "After everything you went through… you still care for her. Why else would you save her time and time again?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Because, contrary to you, brother, I prefer to keep the people close to me alive. Including a few adversaries."

For a second, a flash of pain seemed to pass through Mycroft's eyes as he admitted defeat regarding his brother, too. "It's _your_ disadvantage, either way. Goodbye, Sherlock, John, Mary… Ms Adler."

The short, unspoken threat was evident in his voice and eyes as he beheld the woman one final time. Should she ever misbehave, he would make sure she paid the prize for past and present wrongs. Irene nodded in acceptance of the challenge presented to her in the man's eyes.

Having said what he had come to speak, Mycroft turned and walked down the stairs. It wasn't long until the others heard the front door close.

At once, Sherlock turned to the woman and took in her appearance. Now that Mycroft was gone, he saw the ghost of her pain written in her tired eyes plainly, as she let her facade slip. She looked up at him without trying to hide anything, for the first time.

"Your stitch," the detective simply pointed out in a low, gentle voice. A small dot of blood stained the front of her tee. Obviously the strain of getting into the living room and the tense duel with Mycroft had tore a stitch or two.

"I know," was her simple answer in return and Sherlock felt his wonder of the woman grow just an inch.

John moved as if to stand from his seat, worry in his voice as he spoke, "You undid one? I could have a loo-"

The detective interrupted the doctor, "No need, John. I can take care of it. Anyway, weren't you two going out?" Sherlock turned back to Irene before the others had a chance to answer. "Let's get you back to bed."

The brunette smiled weakly as he spun her around and led her back to his room. "I was hoping you'd ask that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her comment. It seemed the dominatrix side of her simply had no off-button. He helped her into the large bed and made sure she rested comfortable atop of the covers. He opened a drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the equipment he would need to repair the stitch as Irene exposed the wound for him and leaned back against the pillows with a troubled breath.

He wiped her stomach clean of blood in silence for a minute, before saying, "He'll watch you like a hawk now, you know."

"I know," she replied stiffly. "Just like his brother does. Though for different reasons, I assume?"

After a moment's thought, the man asked, "Do you think I'm a lot like my brother?"

He didn't look up, but could practically hear Irene consider it. "Well, you _are_ brothers… Though not as similar as I think you believe."

"How are we different?" Sherlock was curious to know as he removed the old stitch on her stomach.

"You know how," Irene inhaled sharply as he stitched her up again. "Mycroft doesn't care about people."

"Neither do I," the dark-haired man pointed out.

"Of course you do," the woman disagreed and the conviction was clear in her weary voice. "I thought you were a better liar than that, Mr Holmes. You don't always _understand_ people and their feelings, but it's not the same thing. I haven't been here for that long, but even I see that."

The detective smiled and nodded as he pulled the fabric of her tee down to cover her stomach once more. He rose to leave the room when her hand shout out and grabbed hold of his wrist.

"Stay," Irene whispered.

Sherlock hesitated a beat. He pulled his hand free from her grasp, walked around the bed and put his hand on the door knob. Slowly, he closed the door and wordlessly sunk onto the covers to lie down next to the woman. They lay side by side in silence as the night crept closer.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	11. Irene's favors

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>11. Irene's favors<strong>

John gazed from the one to the other across the lunch table a few days after the events at Big Ben. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something different with the interaction between Sherlock and Irene this particular morning. He had spent a lot of time in his own flat recently and wondered if he had missed something crucial while being away. Now, John's eyes tried to make sense of the picture before him.

The woman sat, wearing one of Sherlock's oversized pj's and robe, leaned back in her seat with her legs resting atop of the detective's lap in order to take pressure off her stomach and the slowly healing injury. As far as the doctor knew, this was the first time she joined them for lunch at the table since her encounter with Moriarty. The slow healing process kept her otherwise mostly confined to bed rest. John wasn't too glad of the slow healing, but didn't know how to comment when the woman herself seemed most willing to ignore it. With the blond man, at least, she acted as if the events at Big Ben had neither happened nor bothered her and never seemed keen on discussing any of the recent occurrences.

Sherlock, in turn, seemed at complete ease with her legs across his lap. The man was dressed sharply for the day in his favorite purple shirt and black slacks. His interest was directed solely at the morning paper which he'd just gotten around to reading.

In fact, both seemed as if the position wasn't the least bit out of the ordinary, yet the visiting man knew that neither (at the very least not Sherlock) could be terribly used to sharing lunches so intimately. Then a thought struck John with great force and he dropped his spoon in shock. As it clattered against the tabletop both Sherlock and Irene frowned over at him.

The doctor couldn't hide his disgusted grimace. "Oh God. You two slept together, didn't you?"

The brunette smirked devilishly and put her bowl of soup down on the table. "Every night."

"Urgh. I can't eat at the same table as you two. Oh no… You didn't do it on the table, did you? _What will Mrs Hudson say, Sherlock_?"

The dark-haired shook his head in dull acknowledgment and returned his gaze to the paper in his hands. "She's playing with you, John. She's mocking your choice of words. We have in fact, as she said, _slept_ together. Nothing more."

John wasn't sure. His eyes wandered once more to the woman's legs in Sherlock's lap. "Are you _sure_ you've done nothing?"

"Quite," the other man re-assured and glanced up to meet his friend's questioning, pale eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"When am I not?"

"You mean to tell me you've slept all these nights in the same bed as that _woman -_ our very own dominatrix, one might add - and still you haven't… you know."

"That's precisely what he means," Irene cooed and seemed to take great amusement on John's expense as the man flushed bright red.

"Oh, come on! How stupid do you think I am?" As Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, the other man swiftly continued, "_Rhetorical_. Don't answer that."

The detective raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Only a stupid person asks rhetorical questions about how stupid he is."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Stop changing the topic," the blond man glared at his friend and picked up his spoon to finish off his meal but waited impatiently for any form of explanation.

The taller man looked somewhat offended by his words. "I'm not. I answered you. I have nothing more to say. I thought that was usually the way to _end_ a topic and move on to a new one. Pass the milk, will you, John?"

John did so most gruffly and the three of them spent the rest of the lunch in silence. The doctor decided he'd keep a closer eye on the other two from here on out. He might not be as clever as Sherlock, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what he saw with his own eyes. Whatever was happening with them, he would find a way to uncover.

* * *

><p>As the morning passed slowly in the Holmes-Adler household, Sherlock and John received several clients hoping to get help from the ingenious detective Sherlock Holmes. Since the events at Big Ben, the detective actually hadn't worked any case, but despite this drought he found himself none the less picky in his choice of clients.<p>

Merely to enjoy the entertainment of Sherlock's crude comments to potential clients, the woman had opted to rest on the sofa in the living room instead of in the bedroom. Since Mycroft now knew of her return to London, there was no further need to keep hidden anyway.

"Though you are clearly _very_ old, broken down to the limping remains of retirement and painfully close to the brink of dementia, I do not see the need for you to act so stupid," the Holmes boy commented to the latest client and fell into his armchair with a defeated sigh.

The elderly gentleman rose with great difficulty, helped by John, and seemed quite deflated that the great Sherlock Holmes would not help him recover his escaped dog. As the not-so-potential client climbed down the stairs, muttering about the man's poor temper and lack of people skills, John observed Irene's shoulders shake with silent laughter from her relaxed position in the sofa and book resting in her arms.

As the elder man shut the front door, the doctor turned back to the woman. "You're not exactly helping, you know."

The brunette merely shook her head but the amusement was still evident on her face. "I wasn't trying to."

The blond man sighed at both Sherlock and Irene's behavior and sunk into his own seat. "Seems there are no other clients at the door…"

The detective let out a deep breath that seemed to escape from the pits of his frustrated soul. "_I'm bored_, John… My concussion's fully healed. You've _finally_ cleared me for duty. Though… I could have worked earlier, a small concussion wouldn't have stopped me from deducing the truth."

John grimaced. "Look at it this way, you got more time to focus entirely on your experiments. And you've passed all possible withdrawal symptoms now, too. I think it was better you were off the streets a couple of days, gave the world a chance to breath after your drugged state."

Sherlock shook his head where it rested on the back of his seat. "You still can't let that go? That was _last week_. … Though I wish Lestrade could come by with a case. He knows I'm not insane, after all."

As if on cue, the door bell rang and John went down to open. He wasn't entirely surprised to see the detective inspector in question right outside. The look in Lestrade's blue eyes told the other man one thing only, there was a new case which needed Sherlock. With warmth and happiness (John had to admit he wanted to work a case, too), he invited Greg into Baker Street.

"And you're sure he's… all sane now?" Lestrade whispered to the man as they ascended the stairs.

John shrugged. "Depends how you define sane. He's himself."

As he reached the top of the stairs, the police man greeted Sherlock and then noticed the young woman who rested in the sofa. Recognition flashed in his eyes and he walked over to say greet her.

"Hello there. You're still here?" Greg said kindly and Irene smiled up at him with warm eyes. This time the only drug in her system were the pain killers John provided her with.

"Good morning," she nodded in return from where she lay and snuggled closer into the borrowed robe. "Sorry I'm not getting up to greet you properly. My doctor thinks I shouldn't do any swift movements but rest, rest, _rest_ to heal."

"It's for your own good, Irene," John said with a pointed look, knowing very well how full of mischief the woman could be. He was certain that if Sherlock, too, hadn't been basically confined to Baker Street these past few days, she would certainly have escaped to misbehave and only wound up overexerting her wound.

"Oh," Lestrade said and a flash of his inner detective briefly appeared in his eyes as he took in the wider picture. "You injured then? Last time I was here you were drugged …It's not Sherlock's doing this time, too, is it?"

From the other end of the room, the detective slowly articulated a response, "_No_."

The wheels turned in the grey-haired man's head as he caught on swifter than Sherlock had expected. Then again, he had always thought Lestrade was the only cop of relevance and with a brain that existed in the whole police force of England. "Then you must be the mysterious woman Sherlock mentioned. You were at the clock tower? You might have something to add to the investigation. Do you know where Moriarty fled? Anything you remember could be useful."

"I assure you, Greg, none of what I remember will be of use to the investigation," Irene said cryptically and raised her book up as if the conversation bored her enough to return to the book. "It was just the some old hymns, games and death threats."

"She's not going to talk. I've already tried," Sherlock assured and there was obvious grumpiness to his dark, dulcet tones. "Tell me of the case instead. And I do hope it's a good one. I might shoot the wall if it isn't."

Lestrade frowned and turned to face the consultant detective. "What? Ehm, okay then… I do think you'll like this. Ten people, with no obvious connections, have disappeared, leaving nothing but a star map at the location they disappeared from. All ten maps are the same, but that's the only connection we've found between hem."

"You need to sell it better than that, Lestrade…" the dark-haired man scolded though John saw the recognizable sparkle ignite in his eyes.

"This morning, one of the ten people washed ashore close to London bridge. The man was drowned, of course. But nothing about him explained his previous disappearance, though there was a slight contusion at the back of his neck."

Sherlock contemplated it a second before shooting up from his seat. "Good enough. John, go get ready."

* * *

><p>"I need to talk to you."<p>

Just as Sherlock, Lestrade and John moved towards the stairs, Irene's simple command stopped all three men.

The detective glanced in her general direction as he put his scarf on. "Sorry. It will have to wait. I have to go with Lestrade-"

"_Good_," the woman interrupted and smiled teasingly. "Means you won't interrupt. It's John I want to talk to."

The two best friends exchanged a confused look. Sherlock immediately turned his suspicious eyes in her direction while his mind tried to understand, "Why?"

"Me? Why?" the short man asked at the same time.

The brunette smirked from the sofa and slowly sat up. "You'll see."

"I… need John to come with me," Sherlock argued, clearly not comfortable with the new situation.

"He can come around later," Irene cooed and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she noted the plain discomfort of the man. Though he would never admit it, and perhaps he wasn't even aware of it, _he _wanted to be the center of attention at all times. The fact that _The woman _now wanted something from John wasn't something Sherlock approved of. "Greg looks anxious, Sherlock, you two should hurry to the crime scene. Don't forget - every minute counts and all that."

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to remark upon her words, but John put a hand on his coat sleeve. "It's fine, Sherlock. I'll take a cab and follow you shortly. You go ahead."

Sherlock was clearly anything but amused, but nodded wordlessly nonetheless. The doctor could see the inner struggle and confusion to his friend's eyes, despite his attempts to cover it by an air of indifference. Without further ado, Sherlock and Lestrade said their goodbyes and left the flat leaving the other two alone.

Slowly, John headed into the living room and towards the woman on the couch. He, too, was rather confused by her request to speak to him alone. What could she possibly want with _him_? He knew that even though she was hurt, the woman was still a dangerous, cunning lioness. And though he had grown to trust her after her efforts to clear Sherlock from being declared insane, that trust was in no way unconditional.

Tensely he stopped a few feet away from the sofa. He cleared his throat and looked down at her tired form. "So… eh, what did you want to talk to me about?"

The dark-haired beauty didn't beat about the bush. "_Mary_."

John did a double-take and frowned. "Come again? My wife? …_Why_?"

"You're married. About to be a father in about two months time, according to Sherlock. He also told me about her past, which you found out about not six months ago. I gather from the time you've been spending here at Baker Street; sleeping over in your old and working cases... that things aren't always _fine_. I've seen marriages crack for less, but I could see instantly that you two loved each other. Clearly, she understands why you like to live a dangerous life with the crime wolving. Still... She's pregnant, and I've heard it's not easy dealing with _that_ on your own..."

The man wasn't quite sure how to reply to that. When he thought about it, he knew she had a point. He did spend a lot of time with Sherlock, especially since their case with Charles Augustus Magnussen and what it had exposed about his wife. Sure, he trusted her and loved her above everything else... but she'd still shot his best friend. It had ended up saving his life, but it was still something he struggled with from time to time. Burying himself in work helped John deal with the pain.

Still... She was pregnant with his child. He doted on them both as often as he could, but he didn't spend any less time with Sherlock because of it. Before he'd married her, he'd even promised his best friend that nothing would have to change... He hadn't known it was a lie back then.

Whether or not the brilliant man knew it, Sherlock was still very protective of habits he loved. The clever detective thought the rest of the world had paused during his absence, and that life would be the same after his return. John hadn't ever really thought how much he'd actually adjusted back to their old life, despite marriages and impending parenthood.

"I see it in your eyes," Irene pushed on when the blond man was left mute. "You lit up when you speak of her and your little one. You don't want to lose them. You've accepted the truth. But take it from someone who has seen the best and worst of people… if you don't show your wife the appreciation she deserves, she'll leave you faster than you can say 'gay couple'."

"Sherlock and I aren't-"

"_I know_," the woman stopped him with a strong voice. Somehow, it made John falter. "You should stop acting like you are. It's fair advice. I know you don't want things to change, but they already have. I think Sherlock knows more about it than he cares to admit, too. Nonetheless, you need to prioritize your wife more in order to work through the ordeal. Let me ask you this, when was the last time you were properly alone together, without the risk of Sherlock interfering a private moment?"

Though he thought she spoke wisely, the man still wasn't sure he liked the situation. One of the most amoral people he knew, and a former dominatrix at that, was giving him a lecture on love. There were just no rights in that mix. "_You're_ giving me relationship advice?"

"_No_. I'm giving you both a free weekend at a B&B in Belfast. If you'll let me give it to you?"

_That_ John had not expected. "What? _Why_?"

"I know people there, what they like. I can arrange it so that you lovebirds get time for yourselves. Sherlock-free," Irene's eyes twinkled in that special way only her bright eyes could.

"I still don't get _why_ you'd want to help me," the doctor admitted.

The woman sighed as if the man was missing out on a vital piece of information. She raised the hem of her shirt and bared the bandaid below. "You and your beautiful wife saved my life. Let me repay you by this small favor. And don't worry about Sherlock, John. I'll be here to take care of him, so he won't be terribly depressed you're gone."

Suddenly it all made sense to the man's mind. "_Ah_! Now I get it. You want a weekend alone with him…!"

Irene's smile didn't waiver and he wondered if he'd actually read her intentions correctly, after all. Her eyes merely waited patiently for his reply. "Well? Will you accept my gift?"

The man contemplated his options. Though he wasn't entirely comfortable receiving advice from Irene, it didn't make her any less right. And his most darling wife certainly did deserve to be pampered. "You know what, sod it. Sure. You're right. Mary and I could use a weekend break together. …Are you sure you don't want anything in return from me?"

The woman shrugged innocently. "Not for the moment, no."

'_Quack-quack_'.

They both froze and lost their current train of thought as the unexpected noise sounded loudly in the living room. Both gazed at the other with wide, confused eyes.

"… Was that you?" John asked at great length.

Irene reached into the robe pocket and took out her most precious item. "My phone, apparently."

"Ah," the other man said with a short nod. Then it all made sense. Or at least as much sense as one of Sherlock's petty revenges almost four years late could make. "Someone changed the text alert noise? You should never leave your phone unattended."

"No. Apparently not even when you're in mortal danger."

"Especially not then."

The woman gazed down at the new text on her phone. '_Done yet? – SH_.'

* * *

><p>Molly was working late. Not that it was a surprise, after all. There were fewer days she went home on time than the other way around. The fact that the sun had set below the horizon outside her precious morgue and that her clock was telling her it was far too late, the woman didn't feel like leaving. She rather liked this place. The dead never said things that hurt. In truth, she had practically hidden down here, with her work, after Sherlock's latest antics.<p>

At least she now knew John, Sherlock and that Adler woman were involved somehow with the destruction of Big Ben, as was Moriarty. That she had once dated that insane man was something she couldn't wrap her head around. He must certainly have been a good actor, or just plain mad, to once have tricked her into believing he was anything less than evil.

As Molly inspected the latest body that had been rolled into her morgue (a classic suicide by hanging), the young woman was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

As it opened, the scientist turned to see who her late guest was. She felt her heart sink as she recognized the well-clad guest as Irene other woman looked disarmingly beautiful. Dressed in a tight dress, cloak and flat shoes with hair curled, she made Molly look like a washed out rag where she wore a flowery top and chinos under her lab coat.

"Hello, Ms Hooper. Am I interrupting?" the guest asked with a smile as she entered the cold, metallic room. The woman didn't even flinch as she looked down at the dead man on the slab before the scientist.

"Oh, eh… No. I was just-" Molly waved her hand at the corpse before her to explain. "It's fine."

"I'm glad," Irene smirked and moved closer until she stood right on the other side of the metallic table.

The other woman felt her cheeks flush at the sudden attention and her eyes danced about the room in great discomfort. "W-why are you here? Sherlock's not here. That is, if you were looking for him."

"I wasn't. I've found what I was looking for."

Molly blinked. "_M-me?_"

"Yes, Molly – might I call you Molly? You don't have to look so terribly frightened, you know. You look like someone who just woke up in a morgue. I've only come to offer you a favor of sorts. And now that I see you properly in your... natural habitat, I think I know exactly what I might do for you."

"…Favor? You want to offer _me _a favor?" To Molly, that was beyond comprehension. The woman hadn't even made up her mind whether or not to like the other woman. She knew Adler had helped clear the accusations of insanity against the detective, which of course was a good thing in Molly's book. Still… there was something about the beautiful woman that screamed 'Danger!'. Not to mention the fact that the two women didn't know each other at all. "Why?"

"I'm told I have you to thank for my life. Of course, you didn't know I was injured when you rode to my rescue, but that is irrelevant. If it hadn't been for you, John and Mary I would have died. And when someone does something nice for me, I return the favor."

The scientist shook her head. "No need. Really. I didn't do it for you-"

"Oh, I know," Irene interrupted. "You're like an open book, aren't you? You portray this frail woman to the world, when I can see you're anything but. Are you afraid, Ms Hooper?"

"You don't know me, Ms Adler. I-I… I really don't see how this concerns you."

The other woman stood her ground. "I can see your entire life in your eyes, Molly. This morgue is your entire life. You're almost like _him_ already," she waved a hand at the corpse between them. "Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not-"

Irene arched one fine eyebrow. "So I'm right?"

"What? No, _no_," Molly shook her head and tried to clear the thoughts that swirled uncontrollably in her head. "I mean… I don't think so."

"I've met so many women like you in my past. I've _helped_ women like you when I worked as a dominatrix," at this admission, the other woman's eyes widened. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever shared that little detail with her! _The woman_ smirked as she continued, "There's that frightened expression again. _Relax_, dear. I'm not here to change your... career path."

"_Thank god_…" the scientist sighed in relief and finally released the breath she'd been holding.

"But I do want you to see what I see right now. I need to get to know you, in order to help you."

"I-I'm not asking for help. It's quite presumptuous of you."

"Nonetheless," Irene started and paused as she searched for the right words. "I do mean it. I want to help you move on. It's not very difficult, seeing how much you care for Sherlock Holmes."

"I've already moved on, Ms Adler," Molly frowned in irritation. "I was engaged to another, Tom, for quite a long while. We had a dog and everything. We broke up not too long ago. I assure you, I've moved on."

"May I venture a guess?" the brunette asked as she leaned her palms against the slab between them. "Was this man a Sherlock-copy?"

"I... have a type."

"Alright," Irene smiled in amusement and conceded, "You're not infatuated with our detective anymore. But you never married this man either. You haven't moved on, have you? I want to help you grow stronger and more confident."

Molly's frown intensified as she cautiously spoke, "I can improve myself, thank you very much."

"Yes. _Good_. That's the first lesson, after all," Irene clarified and her eyes sparkled with kindness for a second. "I can tell you want to find that one love. It's true, you don't need a man to be strong in yourself. But you need to move on from Sherlock to find whatever happiness you deserve. Well, I wouldn't say you deserve _more_, but simple something and someone else. Someone better suited for you."

The peculiarity of the situation was still not lost on the scientist. "Sherlock's a wonderful man. I admit, he's got his quirks, but he's still _good_. So is his... type."

The brunette inclined her head in agreement. "He's also unobtainable. I'd bet my last penny that's why you haven't been able to fully move on. Being hung up on someone you know can't have is torture. But it protects the heart from being hurt by someone whom you actually can have."

Molly really didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. In a last attempt to escape, she covered up the stiff before her and pulled off the latex gloves. The scientist shook her head and turned her back to Irene to dispose the gloves in the trash. "That's… that's silly. Why would I do that?"

Irene slowly walked around the table until she stood face to face with the other woman and entered her personal sphere. "My educated guess is that you're afraid of reciprocated love. I've met thousands of people with that fear in my career. I've learned to recognize the signs. Look, people like you are always overshadowed by people like me, Molly. But that doesn't mean you're worth any less. And _that's_ where I want to help."

"… How?"

"As I said: we work on _you_, first of all," Irene said and eyed Molly from top to bottom. The other woman felt her cheeks flush warm but she didn't turn her gaze away this time. "You can choose the pace, my dear. You have so much potential, and your strengths are all already inside of you. Let's have fun with, and I can show you a world you've missed out on. And, if you like... we'll find you someone suitable. Now, what might Molly Hooper prefer, when searching for new types? Someone a few years older, perhaps? An eligible divorcé perhaps?"

Gobsmacked, the other woman asked the question that burned strongest on her mind, "Why would you do this for me?"

"I told you-"

Molly shook her head firmly. She was smart enough not to buy into that crap about the principle of quid pro quo. "No, I mean, _really_? The truth?"

"Because you're one of Sherlock's most important friends. And I want his friends to be mine, too," Irene explained as if it was no big deal.

"Why?" the other woman pushed on.

"So that if Sherlock Holmes decides to turn on me again, maybe the rest of you won't," the smile on the woman's face wasn't one Molly could even begin to decipher. "Now, Ms Hooper… Will you accept my favor?"

* * *

><p>Irene stepped into the cold evening with a breath of ease that seemed to lift her spirits. Both John and Molly had accepted her favors and the night still seemed young. The woman glanced back at St Bart's Hospital and let her thoughts drift back to the young scientist. She figured Ms Hooper wasn't so bad, after all. All she needed was a little confidence to understand it herself.<p>

As she stood on the top of the steps, the woman reached into her coat pocket and took out her phone to compose a short text. A smirk spread across her face.

'_I do hope you're waiting up for me. – IA._'

Irene pocketed the phone and headed down the steps and casually strolled down the sidewalk. She was tired after her little field trip and the wound on her side throbbed with each step she took. It was good exercise, of course, but her body was still unused to such exertion since being injured and confined to bed rest.

From the corner of her eyes, the slim woman noticed a black car approach the sidewalk beside her where it came to a slow halt. The vehicle had black, tinted windows and thus didn't made it impossible to see the person in the backseat. In surprise, Irene stopped, too. It was obvious the car was there for her, after all.

The back door opened then and allowed the woman to see the mysterious person.

"Need a ride, Ms Adler?"

The brunette raised a questioning eyebrow and hesitated a beat. She glanced about once, but the coast was clear. She sighed, walked over to the car and jumped into the backseat without further delay.

As she closed the door, the black car slowly drove off into thes low traffic of the London evening.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	12. Two steps back

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>12. Two steps back<strong>

As John unlocked the door to 221B he was somewhat surprised to see the lights turned off and the flat bathing in darkness as if forgotten and abandoned. He had been expecting both Irene and Sherlock to be home at this hour. The first to heal and the second in deep contemplation over his latest case. Then again, the man knew both were rather unpredictable in their basic mannerism.

The doctor climbed the stairs, which creaked somewhat beneath his tired feet, and lazily discarded his keys on the kitchen table before him.

Gazing into the living room, John saw a shadowed figure reclining in one of the armchairs. Despite the room being covered in complete darkness, he easily recognized the silhouette as Sherlock's.

The blond man walked over and turned on the lamp. He saw his dark-haired friend squint against the intrusion of light and gaze about him in dazed confusion. It was obvious the detective had been deep in contemplation, perhaps even in the far recesses of his mind palace. Regardless, he'd been so far within himself he had failed to notice he'd been sitting in complete darkness.

John knew it would be pointless to scold Sherlock over it and simply walked over, sunk into the armchair opposite the man while he asked, "You figured anything out about the remaining nine missing people?"

The detective's confused eyes turned dull as he sighed in reply, "No. Well, nothing definite."

His friend nodded and then looked about the silent space. "Irene's not home?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head distantly. "She went out earlier to meet a _friend_."

"Friend?" John frowned and the other shrugged his eyebrows in silent agreement. The concept of friends didn't seem to be something the woman treasured highly, unless literally when it concerned payment for a job well done. "Who?"

"Perhaps an old client," Sherlock suggested in a short tone, but showed no sign that this information upset him.

The doctor frowned and allowed himself the opportunity to study his friend in the simple way he could. Though close they were, John knew his friend clammed up to become a man of limited words when regarding the topic of _the Woman_. Since Watson had never been as good at deducing from mere looks as his mate, he knew the only way to dig deeper at the curiosity that gnawed at him would be to ask straight-forward questions. Sherlock would call his tactic blunt and lacking imagination, but it remained the only way John knew how to learn what he wanted. "Does that bother you?"

Sherlock's eyes squinted just the tiniest as the detective's piercing gaze bore down on him. Apparently, the subject was a testy one, but John had expected as much. "Why would it? She may do as she please. I don't care."

"You know, Sherlock…" the blond man voice trailed off as he recalled Mycroft's visit a few days earlier and Sherlock's adamant protest of caring then, too. "I've never seen anyone who cares so little object so loudly."

"Luckily _I'm _the one who makes the deductions in this house," the Holmes boy pointed out in his dry voice as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. John watched in silence as his friend read something on it and then proceeded to compose what appeared to be a text.

The blond man inhaled deeply and rubbed his palms together. Maybe this was as good a time as any… The memory of his talk with Irene was still fresh in his mind and, though he hated to admit it, she had been right. Things had been returning to his old bachelor days slowly but surely, and John was certain his best mate had something to do with it, whether subconsciously or active manipulation. Sherlock Holmes was a creature of habit, and wanted his life to be exactly as it once had been. The doctor suspected his friend knew the impossibility of that, but also that he'd need to spell out to him all the reasons why he had to let go.

"Listen…" John leaned forward and pressed his elbows against his knees. Words failed the doctor and he let his voice fade into shadows as his mind searched for the right words. "We need to talk."

"I thought we were talking already," Sherlock muttered as he kept composing the text on his phone. The man paused to read what he'd composed and then proceeded to seemingly delete it and start anew.

The blond man figured it was better to do this quick. Like ripping off the band-aid. "I meant talk about me getting some space from Baker Street."

That got the man's attention at once. His wide, blue eyes flew up to meet his friend's and slowly the hand which held the phone sank back onto his lap. Though the detective said nothing, John knew this was an invitation for him to continue.

"I'm not saying immediately," he continued with caution. "But I need to focus on my marriage. We both know things have changed since you returned to life. That it can't be exactly what it used to be."

"Why not?" the detective asked and the childish innocence to his voice made him seem almost frail.

"I don't live here, for starters," the short man explained. "I have a home with Mary, and I spend too much time here, I think. She understands what we do, and you know she's helped us crack some puzzles, too. But we haven't been married that long and I seem to be spending more time here than with her."

Sherlock's gaze fell and he nodded shortly. "I see."

"I love her, Sherlock," John half-pleaded as he saw the hurt flash in his friend's eyes.

"Let's not talk of this tonight," the dark-haired man said and whatever emotion had been present seemed to have been replaced by impassiveness in one swift flash. The other man gazed at his best friend for a long minute. He liked to think he knew Sherlock better than anyone. He also liked to think that maybe the man allowed him to see his heart now and again despite wanting no one but himself to uncover the truth of what lay behind his well-worn mask of indifference. The feeling of hurt had been unmistakable, unlike most emotions that flashed in the windows to Sherlock's soul.

"Listen, I won't stop being your friend, you know," John promised as he believed to have figured out the problem at hand. "It's not a betrayal of your friendship, honest. It's just… if I want to keep Mary, I have to prioritize her. And I _really_ don't want to lose her, Sherlock."

The man looked as if he believed his friend cared too much, but refrained from making a comment. John had a good idea his friend was merely restraining himself as to not speak ill about the situation and unintentionally hurt John's feelings.

"Of course. I don't want you to, either. All things run their course, I suppose," Sherlock said with his chin held high. The blond man knew this was still not an acceptance from his best friend and it pained him to realize it. He knew Mary and his best friend got along better than anyone had expected, and had formed quite a special bond, too, since their introduction. It had made John very happy to see how differently the detective treated his wife than all of the doctor's past girlfriends. And Mary, in turn, was very supportive of the men's close friendship. All of it wasn't enough to overcome Sherlock's 'character traits', as he preferred to call them himself. The best thing for everyone was if the peculiar man could accept the changes.

"I still want to be your partner, Sherlock. It's just… I might not be able to help with every crime. I've been thinking about getting a job at the hospital again. Maybe St Bart's. At least part-time. I'd help you most of the time, of course. God knows you're not the only one who needs the kicks."

"I understand," the consultant detective said shortly and put his phone back into his pocket as a stiff grin fled across his lips.

John knew his friend was in no mood to continue the discussion, but decided he couldn't shy away from it. Instead, he pushed forward. "Besides, you won't be all alone. Not while Irene's living here, anyway."

Sherlock's gaze wandered across the room as if they were once more treading onto land he rather wished to stay away from. "For as long as that lasts."

The blond man pondered the situation and then ventured a guess. "It's really bothering you, isn't it? That you can't read her?"

The other man remained turned away and the short reply came after a minute's pause. "…Yes."

John knew the admission was harder for his friend than perhaps most other confessions would have been, and felt grateful Sherlock wasn't trying to escape or lie anymore.

"I've always wondered… why is she so special?" the blond man raised his eyebrows in question and leaned back in his seat once more. "What is it about her that makes you want to deduce everything about her?"

"Because I can't deduce _anything_ about her," the dark-haired man explained simply and with such honesty John figured it must have been the first time the detective admitted as much out loud.

"She's both the one woman who beat you-"

"_Almost _beat me," Sherlock corrected with a pointed glare.

"-and the one you can't deduce. You mean you haven't even gotten closer to understanding the mystery though she's been living with you? Can _anyone_ be that hard to read for you?"

The Holmes man harrumphed like a small child and shifted in his seat. "Don't make me say it out loud, John. I won't."

"Maybe you just need to see her in a more natural habitat," his friend offered with a sympathetic shrug. "Since her return she's been pretty much confined here, hasn't she? Not much of a life for someone who used to live to misbehave. I've been thinking… If I won't be able to solve every crime with you, why not let Irene come with? Ever since the explosion, she's seemed so… restless."

Sherlock looked surprised to learn this news. There was clear confusion in the pale eyes, as if the clouds had begun to fade from the sky. John had to admit he was a bit shocked there was something he had deduced that had escaped the brilliance of his friend's mind.

"You hadn't noticed? Maybe you're so focused on her inner secrets that you're missing what's on the surface…? Just look for yourself. You'll see I'm right. I think she just needs something to do. Besides, she could be a good help. She's very clever and deduces things faster than I ever have."

"That she does." A small, teasing smile played at the corner of the man's full lips.

The short man sighed. "Shut up. You don't have to agree with _everything_ I say. What I meant was… just think about it. The two of you could work as a well-oiled machine if you only allowed it to happen."

To this, Sherlock refused to reply.

* * *

><p>Irene gazed at the figure beside her in the backseat of the car and gave herself a moment to reflect on her current situation.<p>

"I must admit, I did not see _this_ coming," she commented in a dry tone at last.

"I do like to always keep one step ahead of the expected, Ms Adler," Mycroft commented with a light arch to his eyebrow as he turned his head to gaze at her.

"Still begs the question – _why_?" the woman decided not to beat around the bush this time. There was no need either, she figured. She had already spoken her mind to him last time, after all. When they had confronted each other in Baker Street, all bets had been off. The remembrance of their last encounter four years ago had blinded them both to anything else except for their mutual loathing for the other. The agreement they had reached in the past had been breached in the most irrevocable ways and neither felt able to overlook this truth. But having played all the chords right last time, Irene didn't need to repeat her victory streak now. At the very least, she suspected Mycroft wasn't here to challenge her in that respect anyway.

"My brother says Moriarty is back," the elder Holmes man stated simply and sighed, "and after the explosions at the great bell tower I'm inclined to agree with him."

"I hardly see how this is relevant to me," the slim woman pointed out in her most innocent, bored voice and dully began to inspect her red-polished nails.

"_Fine_," Mycroft said. "If you want, we can pretend your affiliation with Moriarty is over."

"_It is_ over-"

The man interrupted her swiftly, apparently not interested in playing along with her mischievous games. "Just _listen_ for once in your life, Ms Adler. Stop debating and listen. I want to propose a deal… Well?"

"Oh, I was allowed to reply? Sorry, I was busy listening."

"_Ms Adler_…"

Irene wasn't so easily fooled by Mycroft's geniality in shifting focus from himself. She saw the raised walls in his pale, cold eyes and opted to see his cards then and there. "Something tells me you knew of our favorite criminal's return before the explosion."

The man merely grinned but refrained from making a comment. To the woman, that said more than words ever could. She connected the dots in no time and gazed at the suit-clad man beside her in plain disbelief.

"You are very protective of your brother," Irene said slowly as her mind closed around the theory. "Though your brother believes it's because of a need to be in control, it's because you truly _care_ for him. Isn't it? He's all you've got. Without him, you're alone. I was wrong, you're right. I now know you helped him fake his suicide, but everything's still different since then, isn't it? He won't let you as close, but you watch from afar. To keep him safe without him knowing. It wasn't just Moriarty's presence you knew of earlier, was it? You must have known I lived with him. Begs the question: what else do you know?"

"_Everything_," Mycroft breathed deeply and threw her a penetrating glance. Somehow, she didn't doubt he meant that literally. She had always believed the detective was the sneaky, clever one of the Holmes boys, but realized that maybe she had in fact gotten the wrong idea about Mycroft by making such an assumption. She had allowed Sherlock's vision of his brother to mirror her own way of viewing him. That had been her first error concerning Mycroft Holmes.

The older man smiled tightly as he saw the realizations twinkle past in her pale, wide eyes. "It would seem my brother is the one underestimating me. Not the other way around."

Irene could only shrug. "You still haven't explained it though. Why have you sought me out, whom you so clearly detest? I know you're not here to ask me to leave your brother, though you want nothing else."

Mycroft smiled at her with a tired, heartless grin. "Rest assured, Ms Adler. I won't stop trying to make my brother see the sense I know he otherwise possesses. He'll soon understand you must leave once more. You see, if you stay, my brother will lose himself. Piece by piece."

The woman smirked in mocking antipathy. It seemed where she had underestimated the man, he had in turn overestimated her. "I thank you for that vote of confidence, but I assure you I have no such power over your brother."

"No? You don't think so? Could you define your relationship with my brother?" Mycroft asked pointedly and Irene didn't say a word. The man seemed to take it as a victory for he swiftly proceeded to other topics, "As for the why this time… You know the reason, Ms Adler. Don't think you can fool me into admitting anything out loud. I'm not my brother, after all. I don't carry his weaknesses."

Mycroft did right this time at least, not to presume wrong about the woman's cleverness. She _did_ understand. Though the man loathed _The woman _for almost making the whole of England grovel before her, his relationship to his brother mattered more. The relationship between them was more intricate than the woman had anticipated.

Irene opened her mouth to break the tense silence and stop the whirling thoughts in her mind, when another sound interrupted their tête-à-tête most unexpectantly.

'_Quack-quack'_.

Mycroft frowned and looked around the backseat in plain confusion. "What was that noise?"

"Text," the brunette explained and pulled out her phone to read the message.

_'Why would I be waiting up?. – SH.'_

The man glanced down at the phone in her slender hand and rolled his eyes. "My brother?"

Irene did not reply, but put the phone away with a smirk on her thin, red lips. She searched to remember her last train of thought before the interruption. "You mentioned a deal… What do you want from me? To spy on your brother? Protect him where you can't?"

"Something like that," Mycroft nodded and let his cryptic words drift into the shadows of the car. "I did mean it, you know, when I said you reminded me of Sherlock. You two are very similar in mind."

"_Ah_…!" Irene said as another light bulb went off. The elder Holmes was starting to make sense now. "_That's_ why you need me. You want to get inside Sherlock's mind palace. A place you haven't been able to breach because he keeps shutting the door on you."

"You, on the other hand it seems, can get in where no one else can," the man confessed and the brunette thought she heart a hint of admiration in his dark voice. "I want you to grant me access to those places down the road. As soon as Moriarty returns, whenever that may be, and Sherlock figures out what is coming, I need to know. I _need_ to be the first to get to Moriarty, Ms Adler. I'm sure you are aware that the criminal is planning their final game."

When Irene remained silent, Mycroft continued with his monologue, "Whether my brother admits it or not… you have gotten underneath his skin, Ms Adler. I saw it four years ago, and I see it written clearly across his face now, too. He thinks he is stellar at hiding his emotions, particularly those he doesn't admit to himself… But I know my brother well. Sometimes better than he knows himself, I believe."

The woman could barely conceal the fact she believed the man greatly overestimated her ability to breach the detective's strong defenses. Though she could admit to a special connection between them, there was no possibility that she could ever learn everything that went on far behind his ocean-colored, all-seeing eyes. Ultimately, she shrugged in truthful hesitation. "I won't pretend to have a VIP access to your brother's mind. You say you know your brother, you should know he protects his mind palace from _everyone_."

"Anything you can find out will be useful, Ms Adler. Use your… _bond_, or whatever you wish to call it, and notify me when he reaches those deep abysses only Sherlock can. It's the only way I can help him. The only way I can prevent him from doing something utterly stupid."

"I wonder… This brotherly control. Is it all fear… or is it anger, too? Anger because he didn't involve you in his plans to rescue me in the terrorist cell? Is your ego hurt?" Irene asked in a mocking voice as she felt herself gain the upper hand again.

Something flashed in Mycroft's eyes and she knew the man was about to un-bury the hatchet. "Ms Adler, if you think I am asking this favor out of free will, you are mistaken. I see in your eyes a belief that you can own anyone's desires and wrap everyone around your little finger, even Sherlock Holmes. You don't see the risks of your little game. You don't see the danger you are putting him in by remaining in London. You, just as Sherlock, have great enemies. The two of you could never be together without risking the life of the other. Not to mention the safety of my brother's nature."

The brunette frowned in confusion, genuinely unsure what the elder Holmes boy was referring to. Somehow, she felt her upper-hand slipping through her fingers like sand, but still couldn't resist asking the question which burned hot in her throat. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock has the mind of a genius, yet whenever you are around he makes the questionable deductions of a fool. In the long run, that's not something his mind can allow itself to do. He can never be in a relationship with anyone, to remain at the top he must be alone. It is the price of brilliance, after all."

Irene shrugged as if his harsh words didn't bother her. "Despite for all the danger I put him in, you still require my aid to save him from being swallowed by a meaner fish. An interesting paradox, don't you agree?"

Mycroft sighed just as the car came to a slow halt. The woman gazed out the tinted window and realized they were merely a block away from Baker Street. She understood this was as close as the man would take her without risking to alert his younger brother's of the secret meeting. Irene didn't seize to be amazed over the lengths which he went to ensure his brother's safety, and a part of her was curious to explore how much his brother was aware of it.

The woman turned her gaze to Mycroft, who sat with head partially in shadow and with features which seemed to be searching for the right words.

"Think about my proposition, Ms Adler," the man said at last. "I don't need an answer right away, I simply need you to consider that I'm doing it for Sherlock. And the reason I want your help is for his sake, too. Our differences aside, we do share our concern for him."

Irene turned her head away before he could see the affect their conversation had on her. Instead, she wordlessly opened the door and climbed out. Breathing in a deep breath, she felt strength fill her lungs along with the oxygen. With a cunning grin, she leaned in to say her farewell, "I have warned you once, Mr Holmes. You overestimate my feelings for your brother and my affect on him in return."

"Leave that deduction to me," Mycroft assured and it was obvious he thought she was playing a mischievous game with him, also.

The woman moved to shut the door when the man called her back. "And, Ms Adler... When you finally do realize that you and Sherlock can't be together… Let me know. I'll offer you a way out."

Irene made no comment to his final offer but simply smiled and slammed the car door shut.

* * *

><p>John heard the door open downstairs and looked up from his paper to glance at the contemplating Sherlock still in the other armchair. The conversation between the old friends had been over for almost ten minutes, in which the detective had returned to his mind palace in order to attempt to solve his crime. He held both hands up before his mouth now, with the finger tips touching the opposite on the other hand. Slowly his hands rocked back and forth a couple of centimeters in this contemplating position. From the distant look in Sherlock's blue eyes, it seemed he hadn't heard the late arrival.<p>

The doctor glanced behind and saw Irene climb the stairs, her gaze seemingly as far-off as Sherlock's. He wondered what could be troubling her mind and cleared his throat to get her attention. Her eyes rose to meet his and in wordless communication she raised her slim eyebrows in question.

"Did you… have a nice night?" John asked, for lack of a better question.

"Fine…" she nodded. "I had a lovely time with my friend. You?"

"Yeah," the man nodded and glanced quickly at Sherlock (who was still slowly rocking his hands back and forth without being mentally present in the living room). "It's been a quiet night."

John saw her gaze traveled to look at the detective. She beheld him in deep contemplation for a second and the blond man found it somewhat odd. At least he'd gotten the answer to what had been occupying her mind just now. He wondered if there was ever a time when Sherlock and Irene didn't think about the other, for surely those times had to be fewer than the reverse.

"...What's wrong?" he ventured.

Irene turned her eyes back to him and he saw her mischievous walls rise up between them, more fortified than ever before. Her eyes twinkled just like normal again. "_Nothing_."

With seductive hips, the woman slowly strolled over to the detective. With an unsubtle, flirtatious move she rocked her hip to the side, knocking the man's elbow from the armrest, and sat down upon it instead. Her flirting gesture seemed enough to knock the dark-haired man out of his thoughts at last and he gazed sideways up at her as if noticing her return first now.

"Ah. You're back," he commented shortly.

"I am," she cooed in return and lay one arm on the top of the chair behind his head. "And you waited up."

Sherlock snorted at her unspoken insinuation and from the other armchair John frowned in flustered confusion. This was definitely not something he was going to ask the duo about.

"Waited, _no_. But I am going to bed now," the detective rose from the seat and glanced down at the woman on the armrest. There seemed to be an unspoken question in the air between them and John could practically measure the electricity in the room. For some reason, the doctor believed he was the only one in the living room who could currently read the moment with any accuracy. His eyes darted around the living room anywhere but on the other two figures as to and mentally attempted to blend in with the wallpaper. Not that it was a hard task for Sherlock and Irene did seem to have forgotten his presence.

"On second thought…" Sherlock said at length. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight. When I work on a case like this, I usually get up in the middle of the night whenever. This way I won't disturb you."

The blond man the woman gazed at Irene and figured she'd pull out all her misbehaving guns and whips to make the man abandon this plan, but she smirked and stood up. "Goodnight, then. And good luck. I'll see you in the morning."

With those words she merely brushed past the men and John thought he saw a flicker of gratefulness cross her features. He heard the bedroom door close behind her as she went to bed. The doctor's jaw dropped and he turned to see the expression on Sherlock's face, only to realize the same flicker of relief passed through his eyes.

"Night, John. Give my best to Mary," the detective spoke and, though still clad in his suit, he walked over to the sofa, lay down and turned his back to his friend.

The other man sat in the stunned silence that lingered in their wake. He thought he'd been so close to figuring out the complex nature of their relationship, only to have the recent moment slap him in the face and turn all deductions on its head. He couldn't for the life of him wrap his head around what had just happened. He'd been so sure the two were growing closer… but now they both seemed relieved to blow the other off. The blond man felt as if he'd taken a cold shower and felt fatigue creep into his weary mind.

Perhaps it wasn't so foreign a thought after all. Anything even remotely close to a feeling always did have Sherlock shying away much like a vampire from garlic. From the little he knew of Irene, she didn't seem to be any better at opening up about her emotions. Maybe all they needed was time apart to think.

Oh, who was he kidding? When it came to Irene and Sherlock they needed a freaking miracle to open up about all that was bottled within.

"You're idiots. Both of you. Idiots," John muttered in irritation as he got up from his seat, headed down the stairs and homeward.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	13. The dance

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>13. The dance<strong>

'_Auhhhhh…'_

'Q_uack-quack.'_

'_Auhhhhh…'_

'_Quack-quack'_

'_Auhhhh…'_

"_That's it!_" John hollered and slammed his palm down on the table. He glared with unmasked irritation at the two responsible for the noises flying back and forth through the air. "I've had it! You're in the same room, stop texting each other and _talk_!"

Irene and Sherlock sat on either end of the table beside him, with matching looks of innocence on their brows while their phones rested in each of their palm. John and Mary had come over to help finish the latest case with the ten missing people, but their run-through of the evidence had soon erupted in the cacophonous symphony that irked the doctor to no end.

With regards to the previous night, the blond man figured this form of chosen communication was part of the couple's distancing tactic. Then again, it could just be an attempt to drive him mad from irritation. Mary gently rubbed his back as she smirked in amusement.

Mrs Hudson entered the living room then, dressed in a jumper and slacks, carrying a tray with five tea cups on it. As she set the tray down on the table beside the detective, she looked up at the doctor and commented, "Oh, John, let them be. Though, I wish you would change that awful noise alert, Sherlock. Just _awful_."

John cleared his throat and irritably turned to the pictures on the wall once more. He was starting to wonder if both Mrs Hudson and his own wife were rooting for the unlikely couple to be real-life lovers. It was clear that their landlady had, at the very least, taken a special fancy to the younger brunette during this past month. In the early days of the woman's return, Sherlock had done his best to keep the two from chatting (for reasons no one knew but the detective), but neither woman was famous for playing along. John was more surprised to realize Mary genuinely seemed to like Irene, even though the two young women didn't see each other too often.

With a warm smile, Mary turned from her husband and faced the tall detective as she asked, "What were you texting about anyway?"

"It's Irene's fault!" Sherlock excused himself to his friend and looked up from his phone. "She suggested we should treat our friends to a dinner party."

"Dinner?" Mrs Hudson asked in a joyous tone and a seldom seen light shone in her eyes, which took years off her features. "Oh, what a lovely idea! But is your health strong enough for that, my dear?"

Mrs Hudson placed a hand on Irene's shoulder and the woman smiled her. Sherlock squinted his eyes in an attempt to read the unsaid but stopped himself. John had suggested the reason he couldn't read _The woman _was because he was trying too hard. Perhaps he really ought to start with what was simple to behold and build a foundation from that. The detective shifted in his seat and leaned back slightly to behold Irene and her response on surface level.

For a second, he saw the same carefree twinkle in the woman's eyes that he had only seen once before, when she had looked at the colorful sunset on the horizon. The moment had until this one remained the only time she had seemed able to lower her walls. The detective supposed he could see why she felt such comfort in the presence of Mrs Hudson. The elder woman did have a motherly quality that seemed to affect most people who met her.

"Thanks for the concern," the woman smiled, "My recovery's going well. I think it's helped going on walks every day with my friend."

"And you still won't tell us who it is?" Sherlock questioned gruffly.

Irene pretended not to have heard. "I told you: if you want to know, all you need to do is follow me. But you're right, I could use… oh, one more week."

"You can have all the time you wish, we're not throwing a dinner party," the dark-haired man blatantly refused and threw her a challenging glare.

"Don't be so _boring_," the woman smirked and the detective tried to read her plain intentions. She'd raised another wall between them, and there was nothing more to be found on the surface.

To rub salt in his injuries, the woman simply winked. "Too bad, and I who was intending to play for you all."

Sherlock frowned. "Play what?"

"The violin, of course," Irene shrugged her eyebrows as if this was an obvious answer.

The man felt his interest peak and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Subconsciously, he stepped closer to her seat and put both hands behind his back in a flawed impersonation of an man not interested.

"Oh, you play?" Mary asked in genuine surprise. "I didn't know that."

" haven't had a tutor in over ten years. I can only play by ear, I don't really remember how to read sheet music."

Sherlock's gaze was relentless as he soaked in the new information as if he was a sponge. Irene must have noticed that the man was practically drooling for more as she breathed, "If you liked that, you should hear me sing."

"Sing?"

"Trained singer. Impressed?"

"Very."

The woman swiftly returned to the old topic, "Let me throw a dinner for your friends."

"… Fine," the man nodded and returned to the paper.

John felt his jaw fall to the floor as he turned back to watch his best friend so fast, he swore he heard something pop in his neck. As he massaged the sore spot, he hesitantly pointed in the man's direction. "_Really_? I always had to debate _at least_ three months before you concede to my suggestions to gather our friends when I lived here. But you accept _her _proposal after a couple of texts and a promise to play the violin?"

Sherlock shrugged and walked over to the wall and looked up at the clues. "Perhaps you're asking wrong... _Ah_! Of course! _A sect_. That's the answer we were searching for."

"What?"

"The ten people who disappeared. The star maps retrieved at the different locations they disappeared holds the answer. They're members of a sect. Another one of those gatherings that have interpreted the stars and comets to mean an aliens ship will come to retrieve their souls."

"Like 'Heaven's Gate' in USA?" Mary questioned as she easily left the old topic behind. "Didn't they commit mass suicide?"

"To leave their earthly bodies behind and be picked up by the Hale-Bopp comet they mistook for aliens, yes. A bright comet passed the London sky the night before yesterday," the detective nodded. "Call Lestrade. Tell them I know where they can find the other bodies."

* * *

><p>On a cold Thursday evening at the very end of January, a whole month after Irene had first reappeared in the detective's life, the man found himself in deep regret over the fact that he had agreed to throw the dinner party. John had on several occasions in the past explained that spending time with friends was a necessary part of maintaining relationships, but the meaning of that was one Sherlock had yet to fully understand. Especially not since he'd known back then that John's friends secretly disliked him. The doctor hadn't kept most of those friends after the detective had presented him with his essay on the matter. Not his best gift, Sherlock could agree.<p>

In truth, he hadn't of course been part of the "planning committee" for this night. Irene, John and Mary had done it all while Sherlock had played every tune he could think of on his violin to set the bar for the woman's performance.

Invited for the evening, besides the four already present, were merely Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had failed to think of anyone else he would like to invite among friends. The others hadn't been surprised by this notion.

"Sherlock, put down that violin and help set the table, will you?" Mary asked from the kitchen where she and John were preparing the last of the food. The detective reluctantly lowered the instrument and put it back in his case as Irene entered the living room carrying a tray of wine glasses. Where both Mary and Molly were simple, black dresses, the woman had instead opted for a red, one-shoulder dress that hugged her slim figure. It seemed no matter what the occasion, she never passed on a chance to affect the people around her with her appearance.

"I still think you should have gone for your other dress," the detective whispered impassively into her ear as she offered him a glass. He declined her gesture and instead past her to help Molly set the table. The young woman wore her long hair up in a fancy hairdo that seemed rather more intricate than usual for the scientist. Though her dress was a simple black she was still sporting a lot of cleavage and makeup. She was plainly dressed up for someone. He just hoped it wasn't for him.

"Need a hand?" the man asked.

"Eh. No, I don't think so," Molly shrugged without even gazing up at him in acknowledgment. "It's just the plates left. Greg went to get them."

Sherlock hesitated a beat and then smiled down at her. The detective wasn't sure he'd ever actually heard the young woman turn down his offer to help. It was unexpected, but refreshing.

Suddenly, sweet angst-filled violin music filled the air. The man turned around to gaze at the woman in red with his precious violin close to her shoulder. The first thing he realized was that he actually liked to see this glimpse of the woman she hid beneath her walls. Sherlock's trained ears could tell the notes were far from perfect but had he not been an expert, he might have been fooled into believing she actually mastered the instrument. The others seemed to think so, at least.

Secondly, he recognized the tune. It was the same song he had written for her two years prior; it was _her _song. Irene had said she couldn't read sheet music, but played from memory. The implication of her choice of music did not pass Sherlock unnoticed, but he merely squared his shoulders and pretended to enjoy the tune with the rest of them.

When the sad tune ended, Mrs Hudson enthusiastically clapped her hands and entered the living room. "Oh, that was beautiful, dear."

"Irene, where did you learn how to play?" Mary asked from the kitchen. Sherlock was grateful it had come up and only hoped the woman would offer a good explanation in return.

The brunette however failed to deliver. She shrugged and put the violin away in its case. "I can't remember."

"Oy, Sherlock," Lestrade said and the detective turned to look at the elder man by Molly's side. "If you buy a second violin the two of you could play duets!"

"_Oh_," the scientist laughed and handed the policeman a bottle of beer. "Wouldn't that be something? A duet! Do you do requests?"

"_No_," the detective refused as he beheld his two friends. There was something different about Molly and Lestrade tonight. He only needed a few seconds to figure out what. Based on Molly's fresh appearance, Greg's new tie, their proximity and the lingering hands on the beer bottle, the answer was clear as day.

"Change your mind about the wine?" Irene's voice interrupted his train of thought as she held out a glass for him. Taken by surprise, Sherlock glanced down at the liquid and then up at the smirking woman beside him. "You look like you could use a glass."

"You know something about this," the detective said in a low voice and glanced over at the couple, who were making casual small talk over their own drinks.

The woman nodded and the misbehaving twinkle seemed to glow like the evening star in her pale, penetrating gaze. "Greg's divorced, you know."

"_I _know that. How did _you _know?"

"I saw it the first time I met him, though drugged by you I was," she explained. "He cleaned himself up before approaching to greet me. Something only men interested or available do. Lestrade is obviously an honest, kind man, and not one who would send signals unless available. Then, of course, there was the _obvious_ tan-line on his finger. _Divorced_."

Sherlock could not help but smirk as the rest of the pieces to the puzzle fell together. Looking back on the past few weeks, it all seemed so obvious in retrospect.

"'A _friend'_. You've gone out so many times these past weeks to meet your 'friend'," the man said and his voice was soft and content like a purring kitten. "_Oh_, I was wrong to make the assumption you meant a past client. Let me guess… You decided to help her find a man as a thank-you for her contribution to saving your life? Jealous much?"

"Who? Certainly not _me_," Irene smiled knowingly.

Sherlock tried to cover his own smile that teased at the corner of his full lips. "Oh, you are getting better and better."

The woman raised her glass to toast with his. "I'll drink to that."

"Alright, dinner's ready!" John exclaimed happily as he served the last dish on the table.

* * *

><p>The dinner progressed surprisingly well with uncharacteristically few sarcastic remarks or blatant words of discomfort from Sherlock's end. The man had, however, not been able to keep the "secret" of Greg and Molly's romantic relationship. This revolution had been enthusiastically received by the others, though Molly had flushed bright red at the detective's blatant reveal and the police man had shifted about in his seat just as awkwardly.<p>

After they had eaten their three course meal, Mrs Hudson requested a small dance to be held in the living room. (It had been too many years since she last had a chance to stretch her old dancer legs, she assured). Greg and John had thus cleared a space in the room.

Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, dug through the CDs John had left, fished out something she recognized and put it in the stereo. Without waiting to be asked, the landlady then took the blond man's hand in hers and spun them around in a foxtrot to the simple tune. From the sidelines, Mary laughed at the awkward, surprised look on her boyfriend's face.

"What are you laughing at?" John asked her in between swirls, though there was laughter in his voice, too.

"I thought _the man_ was supposed to lead, dear," his wife smirked teasingly as Sherlock walked over to stand beside her.

"And she is!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed with a laugh.

John chuckled as he tried to keep up with her. "Mrs Hudson, I don't know where you get all your energy."

"It comes with getting old, dear. When you get older you have no other way to lose energy but to dance it off! Now twirl me, boy!"

Mary smiled from the sidelines and glanced up at the man beside her. "Fancy a dance, Sherlock?"

The man bowed his head and led her onto the makeshift dance floor. Not half a minute into the dance, the blonde beauty whispered, "So, Sherlock... What's going on between you and the lovely lady? John doesn't have any answers."

"You know that question is superfluous, Mary," the tall man berated as his gaze remained over her head. "I don't function like that. Feelings are not my thing."

"_Please_, dear..." she shook her head and watched as Greg and Molly joined the dancing couples. "You're still human, even if you insist human nature is foreign to you."

"_It is_."

"I'm not denying it," she promised. "But I do think you're in denial."

"What about?" Sherlock frowned down at her, but she simply looked up at him with a knowing smile.

Meanwhile, Irene walked over to the sofa where she could enjoy the show more properly. A few dances later, Molly excused herself from her partner and joined the other woman on the couch. The brunette smiled as her company sat down beside her.

"I know I haven't said it yet... but Greg's great, you know," the scientist began and waved a hand before her face to cool down her cheeks after the dance. a confident smile spread over her lips as she glanced up at the man in question to make sure no one could overhear. "He really is. A gentleman. It's very new, of course, but he's so kind to me. Thank you, for… How did you know he was going to…?"

The woman's smile widened. "Stop second-guessing yourself, dear. Just enjoy life. Or more importantly; _enjoy Greg_."

The other woman flushed brighter red before she managed an embarrassed, "How… are things with you and Sherlock?"

Irene took a slow slip of her wine. "Fine."

"He can't be an easy person being in a relationship with. In fact, I wasn't even sure it was possible. But I am amazed you two-"

"_We're not a couple_, Molly," the brunette clarified with a half-smirk. "I don't do 'couple'. Oh, wait. A few times during my previous career, I did _do _couples-"

"That's enough. Thank you," the scientist swiftly interrupted. "I… I thought you and Sherlock-"

Irene smirked. "I can see you did. You thought wrong, I assure. There's no emotional bond between us. I just flirt _at _him."

Molly hesitated a beat. "Would you want to… be his girlfriend?"

The woman couldn't help but contain a proud smile. The scientist certainly had learned to push things further, even with the woman who'd taught her. Irene had to award such bravery with a genuine answer, though with her own twist to it, of course. "I don't think anyone ever becomes Sherlock's _girlfriend_. Just like you, I doubt he can have girlfriends. If I did the couple thing, _I _would have girlfriends."

"Oh! _Oh! _Oh my…"

"Don't worry, Molly. You're not my type."

"But… neither is Sherlock?" the young woman pushed and Irene merely threw her a pointed look. Molly glanced back over at the others dancing. "Well… how about a dance? _With him! _I meant with _him_."

Irene shook her head and raised her voice somewhat, "_No_. I only dance the last dance of the night."

"Did I hear 'last dance'?" Greg asked from across the room where he danced with Mary. "It is rather late, I suppose. What do you think, Molly? Guess the fat lady is about to sing, eh? "

"Don't make such jokes, Lestrade. They don't become you," Sherlock commented snidely.

"What about you?" John asked his wife. "Feeling about done, too?"

The blonde woman nodded and walked up to the host. She sweetly pecked his cheek and smiled up at him. "Thank you for tonight, Sherlock. I had a lovely time. Dinner was great."

"You would know, since you cooked it," the detective pointed out in amusement.

Mary winked. "I do know."

The fair woman turned as Irene stepped up beside the tall man. "Thank you, too, Irene, for convincing Sherlock it was a good idea," she said and hugged her. John and the others said their farewell, too, and it wasn't long before the flat was just about empty except for the detective, the ex-dominatrix and the landlady.

"Oh, go on," Mrs Hudson said to the couple as she switched tune and walked towards the table. "Have the last dance while I help with the dishes."

With a smile directed at the woman, the detective held out his hand, "What do you say?"

_Wise men say only fools rush in._

"It's a start, I suppose," the brunette shrugged as Sherlock took her hand and pulled her closer for a waltz.

_But I can't help falling in love with you. Shall I stay?_

The two swayed close together in beat with the music, though most of the dance occurred in the space between their locked gazes. No words needed to be spoken, instead both simply swayed closer together.

_Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you? _

"_Really_, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said in great irritation as he recognized the song and turned to glare at the elderly woman.

_Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling, so it go-_

The old lady swiftly turned the gentle cover by Ingrid Michaelson off with an apologetic grin on her lips.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I just thought it fit the moment," she shrugged innocently as the man rolled his eyes.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Sherlock had put back the furniture to their regular positions and Mrs Hudson had said a hearty goodnight to him for treating her to this night. After she'd gone downstairs, the detective opened his bedroom door and stepped inside his private arena.<p>

"Tonight was great," Irene commented as he closed the door and the man merely "Mmm"-ed back at her. The woman sat on the middle of the bed wearing the detective's maroon robe and gazed at the man as he removed his jacket and unbuttoned the top button of his dark shirt.

"But it can still get better, though…" she cooed.

Sherlock sank onto the foot-end of the bed tiredly. If the woman was on the warpath once more, the detective surely wasn't in the right spirit to fight her off. "I'm not in the mood, Ms Adler. Besides, I have a headache."

"That's the abstinence speaking, Sherlock," the brunette said and scooted over to sit by the man's side. "Nicotine abstinence. You _need_ some."

"Yes. _Some_ – as in _nicotine_. Not sex."

"How do you know, you've never tried it?" Irene questioned as one of her hands somehow found its way to unbutton his second button. "It's a shame, Mr Holmes. You don't know what you've been missing."

Her eyes danced with a truth Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to understand. For a weak second, the man allowed his gaze to lower to her sensually dark-painted lips. He realized it was probably the wine effecting him, but something stirred somewhere deep within that second. He tried to dissect the sensation that ran through him as Irene's fingers played with the third button and her breath warmed his cheek. Slowly, the woman moved closer until her lips grazed his gently.

Realization struck the brilliant detective like a slap to the side of his head. He jumped from the bed, at once awake and feeling a strange need to distance himself from the woman. Irene leaned back with a restless sigh.

The man spun around and looked directly at the woman. She froze at what she saw in his open, honest pools. The man let her see past all his walls – past the clever detective and into the man he was beneath. In his pale eyes she read his deductions and fears. He had come to a shocking conclusion that not even his head could wrap itself around, she could tell. Sherlock had realized he had felt lust, if even for a brief second, and now let her read this in his eyes so that she would help him understand and rationalize it. He seemed like a lost child in need of guidance. Irene had no idea how to approach the foreign mind of Sherlock Holmes in this, but something told her this wasn't the time to misbehave. Instead, she opted for a revised truth and bargaining-ship.

"You need some," she repeated in a low voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock knew what she meant. "But I can't use patches."

The man's shoulders slumped as he strode over and sat down onto the covers once more. Slowly he leaned forward and buried his head in his hands as if this was a great torment for his soul. Irene hesitated a beat.

"You can't use patches or cigarettes," the woman agreed. "But _I_ can still give you some."

The tall man shook his head into the palms of his hands and Irene knew what it meant. He wasn't interested in developing such a disadvantage. They both knew Sherlock didn't invest in matters of his own heart. The softer passions he left for all other men, it particularly helped in his line of work to draw the veil between men's motives and actions if love was part of the equation.

"It's not about _love_, Sherlock," she gently scolded with a frown upon her fine features. "I'm just offering something to replace your nicotine patches with. Those patches helped you focus all that brilliance inside your marvelous hard drive. You needed that fix. Now you're in need of another, so called, _addiction_ to replace it."

The handsome man raised his head and turnedto face her. He spoke no words but nodded for her to continue.

"Sex is healthier than nicotine patches, too, you know," Irene continued cooing. "It won't drive you insane, for starters. And not to mention the workout. Did you know you can burn up to 360 calories per hour having sex? When you do it my way it's closer to 400… And I guarantee you it will feel better than patches ever could. Your brilliance will be channeled in ways you have yet to discover…"

The man pondered the woman's indecent and indelicate proposal. Sherlock had to hand it to her, she had presented a solution which meant that neither had to lose a round of their elaborate mind game. And from what she offered, Irene guaranteed his restless brain an outlet it much craved for without involving his heart. Sherlock was certain no other woman could make such a guarantee. Since the man had never experienced the natural pleasures of sex, he could merely rely on her word.

"It's worth a try at least… isn't it?" the woman inched closer and moved to straddle the man's thighs. Sherlock still did not object to her daring advancement and she slowly sat down, placing both arms around his shoulders, as their eye contact remained constant. Her pupils were dilated and her short breaths seemed to synchronize with his own. "Besides, what have you got to lose?"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	14. Virginity is dead

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>14. Virginity is dead<strong>

As John dropped by for a quick visit the following day, he was surprised to be greeted by two frozen, severed head upon the kitchen table. Thankfully, the heads were wrapped in plastic bags, but on the stove something boiled that smelled like old feet. The doctor kept his distance as he walked into the living room to find it empty.

"Ah, John," the detective greeted as he exited his bedroom, dressed sharply in a dark suit and pale-blue shirt. "Could you take one of those heads home with you and place in your bathtub? It's for a very important experiment on decay."

"_What_?" the doctor asked with wide eyes. "That would stink up the entire flat. We wouldn't be able to live in it for a while, you know."

"Mm, yes," Sherlock nodded and moved over to the stove as if his friend's implication was lost on him.

John bit back a retort, knowing it would be pointless anyway, and exhaled slowly as he gained control of his thoughts. "... What's with all the experiments today? You usually stick to one experiment at a time. Except for that time you decided to dry human tongues and withered roses at the same time. You called it multitasking, if I remember correctly."

"Hmm," the tall man began in a high-key note as he stirred the contents of the pot around. "I awoke this morning with a lot of ideas."

"… Any particular reason for that?"

"Not really," Sherlock shook his head brusquely.

"Is Irene still asleep?" John asked and turned in the direction of the closed door. The detective nodded. "Would you like some coffee? Do you think she'll awake any time soon to join us? Or should I wake her?"

"Do," the man flashed him a quick grin. "That reminds me. I'd better email Lestrade about the solution to this smaller case I'd been working."

"Ah, so you've solved that, too, before lunch?" the blond man grinned in amazement. It had been a long time since he saw his friend so invigorated. There was definitely something different with him this morning, though John wasn't sure what could have caused it. Usually only nicotine patches or a good serial killer got him so excited, but neither were the answer this time. Maybe Mrs Hudson's energetic dancing last night had given the man fresh energy.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's high, of course, didn't last long. Not thirty minutes later, after having sent his email to Lestrade and Irene had woken up, the man stood with his coffee mug by the window looking down on the pedestrians below with dreary eyes. The liquid in his cup had gone cold long ago.<p>

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked from his armchair as he noticed the impassiveness on his friend's face. He glanced behind him at the cleaned kitchen, from which he could still smell a faint odor. "No more experiments to do?"

The detective's sigh seemed to vibrate from the bottom of an abyss as he replied in a low, dull voice. "No. I'm _bored_."

"Maybe you just need to channel your brilliance," Irene cooed from where she sat behind the desk and the detective's laptop. The dark-haired man glanced at her from the corner of her eyes and she smirked widely.

"I need to be inspired first," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Oh, I can think of plenty of ways to inspire," the woman didn't miss a beat.

"What I need is a case."

Irene took a sip from her coffee and then frowned up at the man. "I thought you had just solved one."

John looked over and frantically shook his head. "_Don't go there_."

"That was _hours_ ago!" The detective sighed in exasperation and began to pace the room back and forth, discarding his cup on the desk. "I need a challenge! I'm _bored_! Find me something to do!"

"_Well_…" Irene smirked and her keen gaze followed the tall man as he walked back and forth in the space of the room. She didn't need to say any more words as the detective stopped by her side, though without turning his head down to meet her gaze.

John couldn't help but inconspicuously glance over as Sherlock placed one hand on her shoulder and muttered a low, "_Please... _Enough."

The doctor felt all his powers of observation pull towards the simple scene playing out before him. Between others that scene might have meant nothing, but for Irene and Sherlock it had to mean _something_. In shock the man pointed from the one to the other. "Wait. Did you… did you two…? Last night?"

The woman pretended not to have heard the doctor. "If you've got no case, maybe you'll lose your touch."

Though it was evident she was merely pulling his leg, the man was anything but amused. His hand immediately left her shoulder as there was a single knock on the front door.

Sherlock knew it could only mean a client. With one seething look at Irene, the detective commented. "Challenge accepted. Get the door. Not _you_, Irene – John."

"Why _me_? I don't even live here anymore! ...I'm not your bloody butler," John muttered but got up from his seat to open the door. He let in the woman standing outside and guided her up the stairs. She was tall and lean, with a white, slightly muddy raincoat on and dark brown pants. Her blonde hair was disheveled and hung loose around her shoulders.

"Stop!" Sherlock commanded as the woman entered the room. The poor woman haltered and her green eyes widened in confusion. "Don't say your name or you problem. In fact, say nothing at all."

"O-oh, w-why?" the stranger managed and gazed from John to Irene in hope of getting some sort of explanation from them.

"Because I'll tell you why you're here," the detective explained and threw one confident glance at Irene before getting to work. "You've just driven here from your countryside villa about three miles outside of town where you keep two cats, one dog and one pig. How do I know this, you might wonder? There's mud on your boots and raincoat and a hint of manure in the scent about you. A city woman would never leave home smelling or looking like that, which indicates you're not from the city but from the countryside. You've obviously driven here judging by the car keys in your pocket and since it's still quite early in the day, you couldn't have driven too far. Three-four miles at the most. From the hairs on your pants I can make out two species of cat and one dog; 1) a Ragdoll, 2) a Burma and 3) a mix-breed Retriever… Did I miss something?"

"The pig," _The woman _offered.

Sherlock nodded down at her. "Ah, yes. Thank you. That one is obvious, though. You have the partial foot print of a pig on the tip of your muddy boot. Am I wrong so far?"

The blonde woman seemed to have entered a shocked trance. She managed to shake her head while she gazed up at the man as if believing him to be a freak. "How...? …No, no, you're not wrong."

"Of course I'm not. Now, to the matter at hand. Red shot eyes, hair in a complete mess and one of your gloves inside out. You've obviously hurried here and had a good cry in the car. The ring on your finger suggests you married ten years ago, which is obvious from the scratches visible upon it which only come with age and, of course, the faded color of the ring. Your finger, however, is slightly swollen and red, suggesting you've distractedly and quite anxiously wrung the ring around your finger repeatedly today. This hints at marriage trouble. Your completely disheveled look-"

"Sherlock, _be nice_," John asked.

"- suggests you hurried to get dressed, and from your shaking hand I'd say you left even before your morning coffee. Something must have happened with your husband as you woke up. He's obviously not dead... No, it's something less significant. Was it something he did? It was something he _said_. What did your husband say to you when you woke up this morning?"

His potential client merely shook her head in awe. "How did you…?"

"It's what I do," there was a stiff grin on Sherlock's full, impatient lips. "Now, please answer the question. _Quickly_."

"Eh... He said: 'Where am I, Susan?'."

John frowned up at the blonde woman. "… And why did that make you upset?"

"_My name is Caroline_! That bitch!"

"Ah," Sherlock turned and gave Irene a smug smile as if to tell her 'I won'. "As for why you want my help, I'll make your suffering short. The answer to your question is 'Yes. Your husband is having an affair' - I'm guessing with his secretary. I suggest you divorce him and take all the money you can get. Good luck with that. Now bye bye, I suppose you remember the way out. Off you go."

Caroline burst into tears at the end of the man's long-winded monologue and hurried from the flat. John sighed as he heard the door slam. "You couldn't have been a bit more sensitive?"

Sherlock frowned over at his friend as if that option was not a conceivable one. "What was wrong with that? I wished her good luck, didn't I?"

The doctor stood from his chair. "And people wonder why you're single."

"No, they don't," the dark-haired man commented with a snort as the doctor entered the kitchen. After a beat, Sherlock strained his neck and gazed back at his friend expectantly. "What _people_?"

Getting no reply, Sherlock turned back to the seated brunette and smirked broadly to express his gloating. There was a distant, impressed smile tugging at the corner of her lips and a fire burned in her blue eyes. For a minute the two remained like that, gazing intently into the other's soul.

"_Twice_," Irene said pointedly at last and glanced down at the desk below her hands, teasing Sherlock's memory.

The tall man smirked but shook his head. "You could see it, too."

"No, no, not until you pointed it out, I believe. But I wonder if you might have been wrong on one detail."

"_Impossible_."

Irene shrugged and stood up from her chair. As she rose, she came into Sherlock's personal space and gazed up at the man who was just about a head taller than her. "I got the feeling she knew the _other _woman personally, with her short remark at the end. How many women know their husband's secretaries? My guess would be that it's someone closer to the wife. A best friend or a sister, perhaps."

Her eyes burned through his defenses and the man knew she was reliving last night in her mind. She swayed an inch closer to him as her eyes drifted to his lips and then back up to his eyes.

"John, take a walk," Sherlock ordered as his eyes bore into the dominatrix. He had to admit he, too, felt somewhat hot in his clothes after their recent deductions. He had always known the woman had a sharp mind, but that she had ventured such a fine guess was indeed admirable.

The blond man entered the living room then with a steaming cup of coffee and frowned up at his friend. "_Why_?"

"Because…Eh…" the detective faltered.

John gazed over at the couple in anticipation. It wasn't often words failed his friend. In fact, the doctor had never seen him so floundered in the past, especially not after such a display of his powers of deductions. As he gazed from the man to the woman, it didn't take long before he found the situation crystal clear. "…Oh. _Oh!_… _Ew_. Consider me gone. Please don't have him beg for mercy until I'm out the door."

"Then you'd better hurry," Irene teased as the man quickly fled the room.

* * *

><p>John returned hours later as he realized he'd forgotten his phone. He'd taken a long stroll through Kensington Park and stopped for an even longer lunch at a diner on the other end of town. Somehow, even being in the same part of London as Irene and Sherlock when they… <em>did it<em>, was something he couldn't bear. The mental images were bad enough from afar. He hadn't even been sure how long time he ought to give them. With _The woman'_s past career, the man guessed the experience could last quite awhile. In the end, he'd opted to stay out just a bit longer to be on the safe side.

When he finally arrived to Baker Street again, it was with hesitant feet he walked up the stairs. His eyes were immediately drawn to Sherlock sitting by the desk in the living room, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, as his fingers flew frantically across the keyboard.

John cleared his throat as he glanced about in fear, hoping he wasn't about to see the woman wearing less.

"She's out," the detective commented as if having read the other man's thoughts, without looking up from his laptop. "She found your phone. Put in on the table."

"_Good_," the doctor exhaled in relief, walked over to his old armchair and sank into it somewhat uncomfortably. He wanted to talk to his friend about the recent developments, but didn't know how to. Having a conversation about Sherlock's love life had seemed to be something the two would never share. Still, here they were. "_So…_"

"No," Sherlock said without pausing in his work.

"No-what?"

"_No_, we don't have to have _the talk_," the dark-haired explained dryly and shifted in his sheet.

"Eh… I think we sort of do. Or, at least, I'm curious to know."

"Why? What's going on between Irene and I is between the two of us, it doesn't concern you. ...Unless you're asking because you are interested in joining?"

John shook his head frantically. "_No!_ I'm good. I'm just curious because you're my friend and this is your personal life, which I up until this moment believed to be non-existent. Friends talk about these sorts of thing."

"Oh, you mean just like you've been nagging _on and on _about all your girlfriends in the past?"

"Could you just… tell me what's happened between you and Irene?"

"I think you know exactly what's happened, John, without me telling you," Sherlock glanced back at his friend pointedly.

The blond man decided to bite the bullet. "You've had sex."

"Yes."

"More than once."

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything, John."

The other let out a confused breath and shook his head. "Of course it does. It has to mean something."

"It's strictly business, if you will," the detective shrugged.

"And why don't I buy that?"

Sherlock pretended he hadn't heard his friends obvious disbelief. "We both win. She gets sex, I get to channel my brilliance."

"_Channel yo_-what? Oh, so _that's_ what she meant this morning!" John sighed. "I still don't buy it, Sherlock."

"Your mind is too placid and one-dimensional to wrap itself around agreements outside the accepted norm," the detective offered. "But don't worry, it's just like everyone else's. Well, with the exception of my mind, of course."

The short man grimaced and leaned back in his seat. "Nah, that's not why. Are you sure you don't…?"

"What, John?"

"…care for each other?" he finished with hesitation.

"Positive," the man replied without missing a beat.

"But you _slept_ together, Sherlock," John said pointedly trying to make his friend see the truth.

The other man did not. "So? It's really not a big deal. I'm told people do it all the time. _Without _feelings. It's… it's… what do you call it?"

".. Friends with benefits?" John questioned in disbelief and the other man nodded. "No, it's not. It _can't_ be. You two… you two…"

"What?"

The blond doctor gazed over at his friend's profile. He couldn't tell if Sherlock truly wanted to know his opinion, or if he simply wanted the conversation to end so he could finish working on the laptop. Either way, the doctor knew he wouldn't get through to his friend today and eventually sighed. "Nothing. I'm… glad for you two, I guess."

"Oh…" Sherlock said. "You don't have to be."

"I know, but I can't help it. This is gonna be… interesting to see," John said and then opted to change topics before the ordeal got to painful and awkward. "Hey, Irene did tell you that Mary and I are going to Belfast next weekend, right?"

The dark-haired man inclined his head. "She did."

The blond man opened his mouth to ask if Sherlock had managed to deduce Irene's true motives for the gift, but was interrupted by a small 'pling!' coming from the computer.

"You know," John began as the man opened his mail, "each time I hear that sound, I'm gonna think you've gotten something from Mo-"

The man was cut short as Sherlock opened the video message he'd received. On the screen, a close up of a manically grinning Moriarty popped up. The criminal mastermind blew colorful party streamers left and right and then gazed into the camera.

"Congratulations, Sherlock!" the mad man exclaimed proudly. "I just heard the great news and had to send my love to you. Congratulations on losing your virginity - _at last_! She is a stinger, isn't she? 'Love is rich with both honey and venom', eh? …It's a shame, though, now I have to think of a new nickname for you. How do you like 'Angel'? _Nah_. I didn't think so either... I'll think of something. Oh, and Sherlock? There was one more thing. Just a _teeny_, _tiny_ piece of information. I want you to consider this a fair warning that I've decided to go ahead with my misbehavior a little earlier than planned. I hope you won't hold it against me, but '_finis coronat opus_', right? Let the final game begin!"

With that, the screen went black and Sherlock slowly turned back to face his friend.

"_Finis coronat opus_," the detective muttered. "The ends justifies the means."

John gazed intently at his friend's reaction. "Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"How could he know about Irene and I?" the man asked as he glared down at the dark screen lost in his own thoughts.

"Do you have any idea what he has in store for you?"

"No," Sherlock admitted in all honesty and gazed back at his friend. "But at least he won't keep us guessing for long."

The other man closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He just never gives it a rest, does he?"

"'_Honey and venom_'...'A stinger'." Sherlock repeated to himself and then sternly turned to the doctor once more. "Don't tell Irene about this, John."

The blond man frowned. "Why not? You don't want to alarm her?"

"Moriarty insinuated _something_ by describing her like a bee with honey and venom. And he does have a fondness for games."

"You think… _she _might have told him this? You think Irene's involved in this?"

The detective shook his head, but there was no conviction to his eyes. "I intend to find out."

* * *

><p>Irene arrived home an hour after dinner and strode into the living room to face the two men with a smile on her red lips. "Greg and Molly send their greetings. I must say, pairing those two together might be my best accomplishment in a long time. Maybe I should pursue a career of match-making?"<p>

"Maybe," Sherlock conceded gruffly and looked up at the woman which scrutinizing eyes. His swift eyes searched every clue he could find on her flawless form, as if this was the greatest quest of his lifetime.

The woman frowned as she noticed the perilous journey his eyes were taking. "What now?"

"Sherlock…" John half-pleaded but words failed him as his friend glared over at him. The doctor didn't think the idea was a good one, but knew better than to stop his friend from discovering the truth no matter the cost. Still, he had lingered with his friend in case he would be needed to minimize the battle field.

Irene turned her frown in the blond man's direction. "…What?"

"Nothing."

The woman nodded slowly and tucked a strand of dark, wispy hair behind her ear. "Would that be 'nothing' as in 'we've received a _special_ message from Moriarty'?"

"So you know something about it," Sherlock said and the tone of his voice was far from kind.

Irene noticed this loud and clear and raised her chin high into the air. "Stop guessing, Sherlock. Just because we slept together doesn't mean you automatically get the key to all my inner thoughts. Go on; Ask."

The detective locked gazes with the woman and conceded to her request. "Did you tell Moriarty we had intercourse?"

John grimaced from the sidelines. "You _really_ shouldn't call it that."

"Ah…" the woman breathed. "So one day after sleeping with a woman for the very first time you blame her for being in cohorts with the devil. And you say you don't have intimacy issues."

"That's not answering my question," Sherlock pointed out.

Irene searched through her purse, pulled out her phone and flipped through it for something. "He texted me, congratulating me on 'doing you'. I guessed he'd be in touch with you as well. Would you like to read the text? _Here_." She pushed the phone into the man's large hand and then crossed her arms over her chest. "Satisfied with that reply?"

"That's a reasonable explanation, Sherlock," the doctor muttered under his breath and then looked up at the woman. "Did he tell you he's gonna start the final game, too?"

"He did not," the dark-haired man replied as he read the text and then held out the phone for Irene to take back. "I'm not trying to pin this on you. But he had to figure it out from _some_ source."

"He has spies _everywhere_," the woman's irritation seemed to melt into hurt, though she took another step back and held her chin high to conceal the truth. "Why do you by default accuse me so easily?"

"Because you _have_ worked with him," Sherlock admitted bluntly. "And, let's be honest, you don't have a history of being trustworthy."

"I guess not..." Irene nodded and her gaze didn't meet his. "You might not see the humor in this, but I do. I no longer work for him, but with you - and still you seem to believe it's an advantage for _him _instead of using it as one for _yourself_. He knew you would do this, knew you would blame me. Did you ever consider that? Of course you did. Tell me, did you consider it before or after you thought I was to blame?"

"I-" the man began, but the woman interrupted him.

"Don't bother. I understand. It's fine," With those words, she spun on her heels and walked off into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her before either man could comment. The sound of the door closing echoed in the tense silence.

"And you claim the two of you _aren't_ in a relationship…" John couldn't help but take a jibe at his friend. The look in Sherlock's eyes was half-terrified, half-confused as he turned around to face the doctor. "She is _pissed_."

The man frowned. "Pissed? She said she was fine…"

"You know, sometimes I forget you're new to this," the former army doctor sighed. "Trust me, she was definitely _not_ fine."

"What do I do?" the detective asked.

"Do you trust her?" John asked and the man nodded once. "And you want to know how to make her forgive you for accusing her of still working with your nemesis who tried to kill her just a few weeks ago and damn well nearly succeeded?"

Sherlock nodded again. "...Yes."

"I'm not sure," his friend admitted at length. "But I'm guessing flowers won't cut it."

* * *

><p>Hours later, Irene sat by the desk in the bedroom and gazed into the Victorian mirror set she had made the man buy for the room and put on the desk. The fine piece of furniture reminded her of the dressing table she had owned when living in Belgravia and of the life she had used to live before being robbed of it.<p>

The woman had changed for the night and wore an off-white peignoir. She'd wiped all make-up from her face and now looked at the reflection of the bared woman beneath the perfect mask. The eyes gazing back at her seemed to question every step of her heart's journey that had brought her to this moment.

The door suddenly opened behind her and Irene hurriedly picked up the brush to brush through her long hair. Sherlock lingered in the open doorway before he slowly walked over to the desk and looked down at the woman expectantly. When she didn't turn, he tossed a hideous-looking, frizzy package of angelic purple onto the surface before her. Irene glanced down at it in surprise. _Purple_. She saw the connection plainly. The man's favorite shirt was purple, there was obviously a significant point behind this gift.

"What's this?" she managed to keep her voice indifferent as she gazed down at the thing.

"An apology."

Irene glanced up at the man by her side as she put the brush down and reached for the wrapped gift. She unwrapped it slowly, as if she didn't particularly care for it and then stopped as the contents were revealed before her. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. Inside the purple package lay a matching deerstalker to Sherlock's own funny hat and beside it a long, golden chain with a small, round spyglass at the end of it.

"How's that for humor?" the detective offered dryly. " I thought it was appropriate... Actually, Mary did. I asked for help."

The woman stood from the seat and smiled up at him as she put the necklace on. "Thank you. Why-"

Sherlock swiftly interrupted, "The idea itself is John's. He suggested you might need something to do since you no longer have your _dominating business_. He suggested you might want to tag along on crime solving. And now that Moriarty threatens the beginning of the end I figure it's perfect timing to introduce you to the fine arts of deducti-"

It's was Irene's turn to interrupt. She rose on her toes and pressed her lips against his, gentle at first but then slowly wrapped her arms around his neck to intensify the kiss.

When she finally pulled back, the great detective seemed somewhat thrown by her actions.

"Apology _not _accepted," she smiled up at him as one of her hands wound itself into his dark curls.

"...No?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"No, you've been a very bad boy. But I can show you how to make amends…" she smirked and tugged on the man's strong shoulders to bring him back down towards her lips once more.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	15. The holiday

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15. The holiday<strong>

"You have to introduce her to Anderson, Sherlock!" John exclaimed one grey afternoon a few days later.

Irene and Sherlock had been over at Mary and John's welcoming, warm flat at the other end of London, when the detective had received a call from Lestrade. There had been a promising murder and Holmes had decided it would be a nice test as the woman's first crime. The married couple had encouraged it and it hadn't been difficult to sway Irene's mind in the end.

The detective frowned in the man's general direction as he threw his coat and scarf on. "Oh, no. Not that poor excuse of a man. You know, I'm surprised he got himself together after everything."

"No, Sherlock. That's precisely why he should meet _The Woman_..."

The dark-haired man flashed his friend a wide grin, having received the point clearly. "Ah!"

Irene exited the bathroom then and stopped beside the tall man. "Will this work?"

She waved at her outfit while she raised a questioning eyebrow in the others' direction. Following Sherlock's clear instructions, she had been forced to change clothes and Mary had been sweet enough to lend her something. Apparently having a dress and stilettos could be a distraction for everyone on a crime scene. Instead, she had borrowed a pair of dark pants, sneakers and a loose, dark-blue blouse. On top of her head rested her deerstalker mockingly and the detective eyed it wearily.

"Yes, yes, that will do," he conceded with a nonchalant shrug. "We were just discussing Anderson, one of the worst medical examiners in England. The man looks like he has an IQ of 13… and looks aren't deceiving. He went through a _rough_ patch, and lost his work for awhile for... various reasons. Lestrade found a way to get him a test period, which he's currently on."

"I have a feeling it _won't_ be a pleasure to meet him," Irene ventured a guess as she shrugged on her pale coat.

"He'll most likely lower your IQ with 130."

The woman smiled up at her detective. "Oh, so you believe my IQ is higher than 130? I'm flattered."

The tall man shrugged. "Same as Mary. Based on your abilities of perception and logic I'd place your intelligence quotient in the range of 120-140. Am I close?"

"Don't know. I've never done an IQ test. Have you?"

Sherlock's face fell as his eyes darted away from his current company. "John and I did one once long ago. Obviously it was faulty. It said John was cleverer than me."

The blond man sighed and glanced at his wife briefly before he replied, "You don't have to sound so condescending when you say that. I'm clever enough to be hurt by it, you know."

"Sorry. You _are _clever, John. In your own way. …But to set the record straight, can we-"

The man let out a deep sigh and rolled his eyes. "_Yes, Sherlock, your IQ is higher than mine!_ The test was stupid. There. Happy?"

The other man nodded and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Mm. Thank you."

"That's what friends are for," John assured.

Mary took the opportunity to change the subject, "But how will Greg solve Irene's presence at the scene? It's not like she has any authorization. I mean, he could allow John because he was at least a doctor."

"Well, I do hold a PhD..." Irene offered with an innocent shrug and a teasing smile.

Sherlock whipped his head in her direction so fast John thought the man must have injured it permanently. "_PhD_? In what subject?"

The woman merely shrugged with the familiar sparkle to her eyes.r

The detective harrumphed in obvious irritation of her sudden silence. "Come on, then. The dead await!"

* * *

><p>After a long drive, the crime solving duo parked and exited the rental car, stepping into the small, picturesque village in the countryside. As Sherlock walked round to the passenger side, he beamed down at his companion.<p>

"This is fun, isn't it? A woman murdered with mysterious markings on her body. This will be a nut to crack!"

Irene eyed the man walking beside her with an amused grin on her thin lips. "You really find this more exciting than sex, don't you?"

Sherlock snorted. "Not even a competition."

Ahead of them, lay a small cabin with white, stone walls and billowing ivy growing up the south facade. As they came closer, Greg exited the house and strode over to meet them. The gentle policeman offered his friends a wide smile. "Morning, Sherlock, Irene."

"Lestrade," the detective greeted and frowned down at the DI. "You look happy today. I thought I was the only one who was cheered up by a good death."

"Yeah, well, it's not that. I bought a lottery ticket yesterday. I think this might be my lucky day!"

Sherlock threw the man a condescending glare. "Honestly, Lestrade. I thought higher of you."

"What, you don't ever buy lottery tickets?" Greg frowned back. "Not even with your... talent?"

"It's all nonsense. Do you realize the chances of you dying on your way to buy a lottery ticket is greater than the chances of you actually winning? At least it is for the average person."

"… I know now." The police turned to the woman and muttered, "Wish I hadn't asked… Hey, Molly sends her best to you, Irene! Said she hoped you did good on your 'first day'. Remember, if you get sick from seeing the body, you leave the room at once, you hear? No contaminating the crime scene. And if anyone asks, you're Sherlock's accomplice."

"What? Like a _second detective consultant?"_ the tall man asked with a great lack of enthusiasm and shook his head. He looked like a furious child as he glared at the police man. "_No_, that won't do. She hasn't earned that title. It's _mine_."

"Can't I be referred to as a specialist?" Irene offered diplomatically. "What's the manner of this death?"

"Well, eh, it seems the victim died during what appears to be an elaborate... recreational act."

Irene smirked up at the two men with obvious enthusiasm. "Ah, well, gents. There you have it then."

Lestrade frowned down at her but refrained from commenting while the detective exhaled in amusement. The DI excused himself to make a call just a few seconds before Anderson exited the building, spotted Sherlock and grudgingly walked over.

"Oh look, it's the _freak_," the bearded scientist greeted with a grimace and then noticed the mysterious woman by his side. "Who's this?"

"She's with me," Sherlock said in a short, dull tone.

Anderson nodded in disgust. "I see. The freak's girlfriend then? Like _Frankenstein's bride_?"

Sherlock felt, rather than saw, Irene tense by his side from the comment thrown in her face. John had guessed right, this meeting could only be fun to observe. Thankfully, the man now had a front row seat to enjoy the circus act. The woman took one slow step towards the short man, and in such a simple move demanded his entire attention. Anderson seemed to smell danger in the air, for he visibly shrank before Sherlock's keen eyes as Irene moved in for the kill.

She looked the medical examiner over with a merciless glare that could have turned any man into a stone gargoyle. "If I only had five seconds alone with you I could make you squeal like the pig you are. And I don't mean that in a good way..."

The man took a step back and silently swallowed.

"Would you like me to try?" the beautiful woman raised her eyebrows questioningly and her innocent, dulcet tones stood in stark contrast to the wicked words.

"_No_!"

"Smart boy. And the name is Irene, _not_ Frankenstein's bride," she finished and with those words stepped around the medical examiner wand entered the cozy house. Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and then followed the woman inside, leaving Anderson to ponder what and who he had just had the pleasure of experiencing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had (with a little bit of dominating help) solved the mysterious crime before Thursday morning, which meant that both Irene and Sherlock were free to see John and Mary off as they headed for Belfast and their spa weekend.<p>

"You packed, dear?" the blonde woman asked her beau as the man finally entered the living room with his suit case.

"Mm, think so," John nodded but the frown on his face told the others he was still mentally checking that he had gotten everything with him.

"Car keys," Sherlock called from the sidelines. "On the bureau."

"Oh yeah, thanks, mate!"

"Once again, thank _you_, Irene," Mary smiled as she ran a hand through her short, blonde hair.

"Don't thank me yet, dear," the other woman warned as she leaned against a wall in the Morstan-Watson household.

"Come on, we should hit the road," the blond man smiled and moved towards the door with the bags in tow. "I take the luggage, you open the doors? Bye, Irene. Bye, Sherlock."

The detective, who was busy inspecting the books on the couple's shelves, waved briefly. "Have fun."

* * *

><p>As the married couple stepped outside in the fresh morning air, the blond man exhaled deeply. Mary noticed and as she walked around their car to open the trunk, she carefully asked, "Are you alright?"<p>

"Yeah, of course I am," he smiled back and unloaded their luggage in the trunk of the car.

"He'll be fine, you know," Mary guaranteed as she stepped around the car to face her husband. "He's a big boy. Knows how to cook an egg and everything. And he's got _her_."

"I know, I know," John sighed.

The woman sighed. "It's nice, isn't it? To have a weekend all to ourselves?"

The man searched her deep eyes and saw the true expectation in the gorgeous depths. "_Hey..._ I am glad for this. I want to go away with you - and our little one - for the weekend – _alone, no interruptions_ – you know that, right?"

"Still… it wouldn't kill you to be a bit more enthusiastic about it."

"I'm sorry, I've just been…" John haltered. He wasn't sure how to explain his mental attempts at figuring out the relationship of Irene and Sherlock. He decided to leave it behind in London for his holiday, Mary was worth getting pampered without any such competition, as was their love child. "You know, spending so much time with that man has an effect on you sometimes. A weekend off feels great! You'll have my undivided attention and more!"

His wife smiled and pecked his cheek sweetly. "And you'll have the _best_ company, too."

"_Definitely_ better than Sherlock," John wiggled his eyebrows and pulled the woman closer to his chest. "You do know I love you, right? Besides… I was thinking this trip gives us a chance to plan some things for the arrival of the stork."

Mary positively beamed up at her boyfriend and glanced down at her growing baby bump. "Sounds great! Though my first priority is the mud bath at the spa, I hear it's _excellent_."

"Oh, get in the car, you!"

* * *

><p>Many hours later the tired duo finally arrived at their small bed &amp; breakfast in Belfast. As they had driven there they had passed billowing landscapes straight out of fairy tales and John had tasted freedom on the fresh air.<p>

After having checked in, the two headed up to their suite. The room was white and romantic in its simplicity with a view of the beautiful, untouched landscape outside covered partially beneath a wintery cover of snow and ice. John made a mental note to thank Irene again when he returned to London for having fixed this perfect setting for a romantic weekend.

"So, what do you wanna do first?" the man asked as he unloaded their luggage on the bed as Mary flipped through a catalogue of the spa's experiences.

"I told you already; the mud bath. The spa is quite known for it… Do you want to join me?" the blonde asked.

"Nah, I'm not much for dirty bathing," John shook his head and caressed his wife's growing stomach without thinking about it. "I figured I might check out the environment and just get some air while you're occupied. Wanna meet back up here in… one hour? Have a late supper and… maybe something more."

Mary laughed up at him as he wiggled his eyebrows in comical flirtation. "That sounds like a plan! I'll see you later then, dear."

* * *

><p>John headed back down to the reception in hopes of getting advice from the receptionist as to a fitting scenic route to drive. He walked over to the tall, oak counter and leaned his elbows against the top to await the receptionist. From the corner of his eyes he saw a lean figure step towards him.<p>

"Hello, John."

"_Oh!_" In complete surprise, the man whipped his head to the side and felt as if his heart would jump out of his chest upon seeing the person beside him. After a minute his heart had managed to settle down enough for him to comment, "_What the devil are you doing here?_"

Irene flashed him a crooked grin and leaned against the counter by his side in a relaxed pose. "_Misbehaving_."

"Oh…. Oh, no, _no_," John said as a thought struck him. "Sherlock doesn't know you're here, does he?"

The woman shrugged and untied her wine red scarf from around her lean neck. "I told him I was going out for a couple of hours. I forgot to specify to _where_."

The short man only managed to shake his head as his thoughts swirled round and round in a desperate attempt to make sense of the situation. He didn't do very well. "…How could you have gotten here so fast?"

"You drove, I flew."

John inhaled and readied himself for his next question. It was better to do this quick, after all. The sooner he could figure out her intentions, the sooner he could return to enjoy his holiday. "What do you want, Irene? ...I _knew_ this wasn't a free trip. You offered me this holiday only to do help you misbehave, didn't you? And since Sherlock doesn't even know that you're here for me, this has to be _good_."

The brunette inclined her head and her pale eyes searched her friend's. "I'm sorry, John. You're right. I _need_ your help."

"No, no. This is my _one _weekend off with Mary!" the doctor half-pleaded. "I'm not gonna misbehave with you!" At that point, the receptionist returned to the counter and frowned as he heard the conversation on the other side of the desk. "I didn't mean like _that!_ Stop eavesdropping!"

Irene grabbed hold of John's sleeve and pulled him away from the counter and into a more secluded part of the lobby, where no one could overhear them.

In a low, dark voice, she explained herself. "I'm here for _Sherlock_, John. I know I'm asking a lot by interrupting, but I need to at least try to make a change. I thought you'd understand."

"…'Look at us both'?" John asked, echoing words she had spoken to him almost four years ago. Still, he wasn't sure if she was using it against him in a grand game, or if the words were honestly spoken.

"Exactly," Irene nodded with a smile. "I had to be sneaky about this, this is the only way Sherlock won't find out."

"Find out about _what_?"

The brunette shook her head and glanced about, as if they were in fact in an old spy movie rather than in a spa lobby. The man had to admit he understood less and less the more she seemed to explain. "It's better you don't know just yet. For your own safety."

The doctor decided to stand his ground. "I'm not playing your games, Irene. If I'm doing this, I'm gonna need to know why."

John saw the struggle in the ex-dominatrix's eyes as she determined whether or not to release some of her power and hand it over to him. "_Fine_. I'll tell you. But not here."

The man waved his hands out to indicate acceptance. "Then let's go somewhere we can talk."

"We have to hurry anyway," she said and leaned closer. "Listen, go up and get the gun I packed into your suitcase-"

"_You did what?_" John hollered and his eyes widened in horrified shock. "How did you even-? Irene, _that is not okay_!"

"I had to. I couldn't carry it with me on the plane, could I?" the woman sighed and he thought she'd spent just a couple of months too long in the company of Sherlock Holmes. "Just go up and get it and we can do what I came here for. The faster we get out of here, the faster we can return."

"Mary will know I'm gone," the short man argued stubbornly.

"You underestimate the power a spa has on a liberated woman. I've told the employees to give her the 'Royal treatment' tonight. She won't notice you're gone for hours."

* * *

><p>As John exited the car on the driver's side, he eyed the sign up ahead. <em>Colin Glen Forest Park<em>. He frowned and gazed over at Irene in hopes of getting his explanation. She slowly walked around the car and shrugged her coat closer to her body as if trying to protect it from the chilly, fresh air of the February evening.

"Well…?" the man asked impatiently as she reached his side. "What are we doing in a park?"

"Parks are great places to meet people, John," she explained cryptically. "Especially when it's someone you can't meet in public."

Warning flags flew high in the man's head and he eyed the woman suspiciously. Suddenly he was reminded of his past fears of her scruples and questionable nature. "Irene… who are we here to see?"

"He calls himself _Hazaar_," the woman explained and then proceeded to give John the full-length version of the explanation he craved. "It is Urdu and loosely translates as _Thousand_. He claims it's about the amount of people he's killed so far..."

John gazed at the woman with unblinking eyes as he failed miserably to wrap his mind about the meaning of her words. Irene saw his struggle and eventually continued as to clear out his confusion, "Remember Sherlock came to my aid in Karachi four years ago? Truth is, we had a little help escaping by an assassin who had infiltrated the terrorist cell. His name was Hazaar."

The man's eyes widened again, if that was even possible. "You've lost your mind, woman!"

"Listen to me, John… Hazaar helped us escape because he believed in us. Or in Sherlock's money at least. He's on our side. He's a rogue agent from Pakistan who travels the world on different assignments. He's been working in Ireland infiltrating ETA little over a year now, which is why I thought Belfast a good place to strike a meeting with him. He's the only one who can do it."

"Do'_it_'?" John questioned quickly and felt his throat go dry. "What? …Irene, _do what_?"

The woman's large eyes gazed at the man with a sincerity he had seldom seen in her blue orbs. "He is considered one of the most lethal assassins. He might be the only one who can take out Moriarty and his henchmen before they can get to us. He's already an ally and wants to stop Moriarty because the man is once more gaining influence on the criminal market. It's the _only way_ to stop this before the mad criminal starts his final game."

The blond man exhaled in shock and leaned against the hood of the car attempting to let the inventive plan sink in. "Let me see if I got this straight. We're here to strike a deal with an assassin to kill Jim Moriarty...?"

"First, I'll ask him to keep Sherlock safe from afar. Then to target Moriarty's henchmen until the main character makes a faulty move and can be targeted himself. I admit, it's risky, but do you have a better option?"

"Look… It's not that I don't want Moriarty dead before he hurts Sherlock…" John felt at a loss of words. "But you're asking me to help you _hire someone to kill a man_. Oh, for- Okay. Sod it. Say we do this… why am I even here? Why can't you do this alone? Or on the phone?"

Irene grimaced and leaned back against the car, too. "You're my protection, John. There's a price on my head for all my past misbehaving. It's possible he'll take the easier prize money… That's what the gun's for, too. That, and these were his terms. He never makes a deal without a reliable witness. Don't ask me why."

John released a distressed breath and shifted anxiously from side to side. This was madness, pure madness. Then again, he hadn't expected her tactics to be anything akin to normal or conventional. He could clearly see why she had asked for his help and not Sherlock's. The detective wouldn't have let her, rather risking the final encounter that was undoubtedly to come sooner rather than later. This way, however, maybe a final meeting between Moriarty and Sherlock could be avoided all together...

"So… will you help me?" Irene questioned and met the man's gaze head on.

* * *

><p><em>I can't believe I'm doing this<em>, John thought to himself as he hiked on the trail behind the woman who led them further into the vast park. All across the ground lay fallen leaves in bright colors ranging from red to yellow buried beneath a thin layer of palest snoe, while most of the trees stood naked and pale around them in the winter cold.

Suddenly, Irene halted and the man gazed ahead to see the cause of it. In the meadow before them stood a lone figure in a brown tweed-coat. The stranger, _Hazaar_, had charcoal hair and forest-green eyes that beheld the new arrivals without faltering. There was something cold and heartless about him, John could feel as he moved to stand by the woman's side. No matter what she said, he wasn't entirely certain the man was trustworthy with this.

"Salam alekum," Irene greeted and bowed her head. (Good evening)

The green-eyed man nodded slowly and returned the greeting, "Salam… Kya hal hai thera?" (Hello. How are you doing?)

"Main theek hun," the woman nodded. "Aur aap?" (I'm fine. And you?)

"Acche…" (Good...)

John didn't speak Urdu, but still followed the conversation closely in an attempt to search for clues in the body language and general tone as to how this was progressing so far. So far, so good.

"This is John Watson," Irene introduced him and the man waved awkwardly in response.

"Salam, Mr Watson," Hazaar bowed his head without lowering his eyes from the doctor's face.

"I don't like beating around the bush, as you are aware," the woman continued in a dry voice and put both her hands in her coat pockets. "You know why we are here. Can we get to business?"

Hazaar smirked and simply shrugged. "If you wish."

"You know whom I want gone. Jim Moriarty."

"I know of him," Hazaar nodded.

Irene smirked confidently. "Kya aap meri madat kar sakte hain?" (Could you help me?)

"Nahi…" (No…)

Something was wrong. John could feel it in the sudden rise of tension between the trio. It seemed the chilly wind slowed and everything suddenly changed as Irene shifted her feet and stared at the man ahead tensely. Whatever had been spoken had altered the course of the conversation. Though the doctor noticed only a slight stiffness to the woman's features, he was painfully aware things were going steadily downhill from here.

Hazaar explained himself, "I cannot help you, Ms Adler, because you see… _He_ came to me with a proposal."

John swallowed and muttered a low, "Shit…"

"Jim Moriarty came to me shortly after you contacted me," Hazaar offered as if this was a natural way for things to evolve in his world where allegiances changed with the wind. "He offered me a considerably larger sum than you did to kill someone else."

"Should we run?" the doctor breathed quietly so that only the woman could hear.

"I think it might be too late for that," was her reply.

"He offered me a huge sum, to take out _you two_," the assassin continued. "In fact, he asked me to pass on a message. He asked me to tell you, and I quote… 'Thank you for giving me a chance to get Sherlock all to myself. Check. Your move.'... It doesn't make much sense to me, but I suppose it does to you."

John nodded distantly, "You could say that…"

"_Our move,_" Irene muttered and took a slow step backwards.

Then, from the doctor's point of view, all hell seemed to brake lose in a split second.

Without warning, the blond man saw the woman whip out the gun from her coat pocket. Her move had been expected, however, and with snake-like reflexes, Hazaar pulled out a revolver of his own and aimed it straight at them. John did the only sensible thing and threw himself aside just as two shots echoed between the bared tree tops in the empty forest.

As John hit the forest floor, everything went dark.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	16. Love is blindness

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16: Love is blindness<strong>

John felt something slap the side of his cheek as a woman's voice called out his name, urging him to awaken from the deep bottom. He tried to pry open his heavy eyelids and finally managed to crack one eye open. Irene's impatient face stared down at him.

"…Am I dead?" he managed to croak out and slowly sat up on the forest floor. He inspected himself from a medical point of view and was relieved to find no mortal wound anywhere on his body. The bullet had thankfully grazed the outside of his right arm, due to his good reflexes of ducking out of the bullet's path. His sleeve was bloody and the wound stung like hell, but it wasn't worse than that. John raised his gaze and saw the body of the young pakistanian in the middle of the meadow. Hazaar lay on his back with a blank expression on his bloodied face amid the snow-covered leaves. He had definitely not been as fortunate.

"So much for a good assassin…" John muttered in shocked confusion.

"It was fortunate he aimed his gun at you, I'd rather say," the fair lady commented in a brusque tone of voice that didn't become her.

"Oh, yes, _fortunate_," the man retorted in his most sarcastic voice and turned to the injury on his arm. He tended to it carefully and hissed as he applied pressure on the sore spot. How he would explain this to his wife, he had yet to figure out.

From the corner of his eye, the doctor saw the woman lean heavily against a tree nearby. She lowered her hand and the gun fell from her grasp to rest on the forest floor by her feet, buried into the snow. She seemed almost beside herself.

Irene Adler was many things, a lot of which could be traced to less than legal attributes, but a killer she was _not_. She had probably seen and done more things in her line of work than John could ever imagine, but even _this_ seemed outside her usual norm of misbehaving. Though he understood her reaction well, the man was still unsure what to do. He had never seen the woman lower any of her carefully constructed walls, and yet now she stood before him - inhaling shaky breaths as if she was slowly tipping over the edge of a great abyss.

"… It failed," she whispered at length and the man frowned.

"Sorry?"

She turned around and looked over at the injured man as if remembering he was still with her. "_It failed_. All I wanted was to stop Moriarty before he… Before he…"

John sadly smiled up at her and slowly stood on shaky legs. As he rose, he brushed the snow from his clothes. "I know _this _wasn't part of the plan. But it happens to everyone, we trust in ourselves and others in ways we shouldn't because we just _hope_ we're right. Everyone makes mistakes. Granted, not-"

"Not everyone's _mistakes_ involve killing a man!" Irene snapped in reply before the man could finish.

The man was somewhat taken aback. He had never seen the woman wear her heart on her sleeve in such blatant fury either. He still couldn't hold it against her, he'd been there himself during his early days in Afghanistan... He knew the toll these matters could have on the human mind, not to mention the heart.

"Irene…" the doctor spoke slowly in a gentle voice.

As if realizing her shock was visible in the cracks of her flawless facade, the woman raised her head and held it proudly. John saw her create a new, impenetrable wall between them. "I've done worse."

As if fully recovered from her shock and actions, she nonchalantly picked the gun up from the ground and wiped it clean from prints. She then tucked it into her pocket to dispose of elsewhere in the park. With a final glance at the dead man, Irene turned back to her company.

"I don't know about you, but I think I've had all the fresh air I need for one day. I have a plane to catch. If I'm not on it, Sherlock will miss me terribly."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, after the cover of darkness had settled completely over the town of London, Irene stepped out of the Hackney carriage and gazed up at the familiar black door to 221 B Baker Street. Though she had had more than enough time to collect herself, the woman still hadn't managed to suppress the shock entirely. It still bubbled just beneath the surface and she was afraid Sherlock would see it.<p>

The meeting with Hazaar had been a failure and she couldn't confess any of this to the man that awaited her on the other side of the door. She had deleted all her tracks so far and was confident he would never find out unless she or John messed up. Irene drew one last steadying breath as she stood on the top step. Her trembling hand unlocked the door and she stepped inside.

"I said: 'Pass the laptop'," Sherlock spoke from the living room where he was sitting in his armchair, intently gazing into the fire before him.

The woman stopped at the top of the stairs and paused before stepping into the man's peripheral view. "When?"

"Two hours ago," the man explained with a shrug of his eyebrows.

"I was out…" Irene sighed. Perhaps her fears had been misplaced. If he had been so preoccupied with the thoughts which circled in his mind palace, there was a good chance he wouldn't notice anything off about her. Either way, the woman walked over to the desk, grabbed the laptop and carried it over to the detective.

"Thank you," he said as he took it from her hand, opened it up and began typing away.

The woman walked over to the window and gazed out at the beautiful night. On the inside, her chest ached with a shriek that desperately wanted to escape, but had to be forever trapped. She gazed down at her hands and though there was no visible blood on them, they still felt soaked in the heavy liquid.

"That's odd," Sherlock's comment interrupted her thoughts.

Irene inhaled and glanced down at him with an aloof look on her face. "What is?"

The man was gazing intently at her. "_You_. Your pupils are slightly dilated, your breathing is erratic. What's happened?"

"Maybe it's just seeing your cheekbones that's getting me all warm inside…" she breathed, walked over and climbed into his lap even as he discarded the laptop on the floor beside the armchair. She wrapped her arms around his neck as the man sighed in reluctance.

"Be serious, Irene…"

"I don't do serious," she scolded him. "But I will _do _you…"

It was plain in the detective's eyes that he wasn't about to let her reaction slide, instead he spent a good minute attempting to read her features. "…This is about Moriarty, isn't it? I suppose it's a natural human response to be had. The man nearly did kill you, after all. To be a little scared of what is to come is simply… human."

The woman felt relief wash over her when he presented her with an alternate version to hide behind. "The man blew up _Big Ben_, Sherlock. He won't stop at anything to win this time. I know there's no one more brilliant and wise than you. You've seen through Moriarty in the past, but is it enough? He's becoming more desperate to defeat you, and thereby more dangerous. I wish I could help..."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, but before he could say anything, Irene put a hand over his mouth firmly. She figured she might try and make amends for her error by at least giving him some useful information she had acquired during her associations with Moriarty.

"I'm sure you know this, but he believes the devil is in the details. Because of his changeable nature he never concocts a plan without back-up and therefor rarely loses. Plan B is king. Of course, he thinks highly of himself, much like his _sexy_ adversary. He sees himself as undefeatable in the face of an opponent... even you. You've proved him wrong in the past, of course. Still, as I said, he'll step up his game now."

The man smiled into her hand as she kept informing him of everything she could think of that might contribute to the end of the criminal mastermind.

* * *

><p>Mycroft waited impatiently in the cool, abandoned parking house. His brother was late, which was somewhat unusual for the other man. Still, more often than not these days, the younger Holmes brother did everything he could to tick his elder brother off. A few minutes later, the familiar shape of Sherlock walked over to his brother with a sour expression on his face and his collar turned up for mystical value.<p>

"What was so urgent that we had to meet on a Sunday?" Sherlock asked as he stopped a few feet before his brother.

Since he was already growing annoyed at his brother's ignorance, Mycroft decided to get on with it without further ado. He handed over the manila envelope in his hand and simply said, "Here. I wanted to show you these. They were taken on Thursday."

The detective frowned down at the envelope as he opened it and pulled out its contents. Inside lay several photographs, obviously taken stealthily. Photographs of Irene. And John. Sherlock squinted as he gazed at the third figure visible in the shots. _Hazaar_. It didn't take more than two seconds for the clever man to put the whole picture together as he beheld the photographs in his hands, but he kept his face impassive as to not give his brother any ideas.

"Well, the angle is slightly off," Sherlock commented dryly as he flipped through the images.

"I'll tell my agent that next time he stalks Ms Adler going into suspicious meetings he ought to think about the angles of his shots," Mycroft retorted just as sarcastically.

"What's _this_, Mycroft?" the detective waved the photos in the air with a firm grip to make his point.

"I think you know, brother."

"What makes you believe you can stalk the people around me?"

"It's to _protect you_. Why can't you see that?"

"I don't need your protection, Mycroft!" Sherlock growled in a loud, angry voice. "You're not mum!"

"Imagine her reaction to all this, Sherlock," the elder man began and disappointment shone in his eyes. "What would mother say to you having found yourself a dominatrix girlfriend who goes on meetings with well-known assassins and gets your only friend shot… Do you still think she's trustworthy?"

"I've never thought she was trustworthy," the other argued back. "No more than I've ever thought you and I are on the same side."

"Despite everything? ...Perhaps you'll change your mind about that before the end," Mycroft remarked wistfully. "It would be best for all if you did."

"Best for _all_? Or best for _you_?"

"She's a loaded gun you can't control, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a warning to his dark voice. "These pictures show that better than any other proof I could have found for you. You keep her around for your own pleasures, without seeing the dangers you put yourself in. For God's sake, Sherlock... Ms Adler has killed a man this week and gotten John injured in the process. How can you still not believe she's working for _the other side_?"

The detective shrugged his eyebrows and sighed as if his elder brother was beginning to bore him. "Are you done lecturing me yet, brother?"

The other man gazed down at his brother for a long moment before sighing in defeat. "I'm just trying to look out for your heart, Sherlock. Since you do such a fine job of putting it at risk constantly."

"At least I have a heart," the younger Holmes brother remarked haughtily, turned on his heel and simply walked away.

* * *

><p>That same Sunday afternoon, John and Mary arrived home and the man's first visit back was at Baker Street. After Irene had left Ireland, the rest of the weekend had passed with great ease and he had enjoyed the weekend with Mary immensely. She had noticed his injury, of course, but he'd managed to convince her he had fallen on a cliff and cut it open. He hated lying to the people closest to him, but he had sworn to the woman never to tell anyone, and for once he thought she knew best.<p>

Their run-in with the assassin had kept replaying in his mind through the weekend and after having dropped his wife off at their apartment, John had focused all his energy on what he had to do next.

He walked up the stairs to the flat and gazed into the living room. Irene sat snuggled up in one of the armchairs by the lit fireplace. Her face was towards him, as if she had been expecting his return, and a pillow rested in her lap.

"Sherlock's out," she explained shortly. "How's your arm?"

"I've had worse. As long as he doesn't punch me, he won't ever have to find out," the blond man said and mentally tried to prepare himself for what he had come to do.

Slowly, he joined her in the living room and sank into the armchair opposite her. For a moment, the two merely looked at the other expectantly. At the end, it was John's blunt question that broke the ice; "Do you love him?"

Irene's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. "_Excuse me?_"

"I said; do you love him?"

"I heard…" she replied tensely. "John Hamish Watson, I _don't_ believe that's any of your concern."

The blond man let out a tired breath and closed his eyes tight as if this discussion would cause him more pain than gain. He had known she would stubbornly refuse to partake in it, but John wasn't about to give up. "Just … _please_. Answer my question."

"Why?"

"I sort of need to know," he managed as an explanation. He wasn't sure how to explain his anxious emotions. There was so much in the air these days; the fear of change, Irene's presence and her relationship with Sherlock. Not to say anything about Moriarty's ultimate game. John felt he had to clear out _the one thing_ he could before being able to accept the others.

"_Why_?" the woman questioned his motives with a sparkle in her eyes. "Do you feel some obscure sensation that your own chance of living happily ever after with our favorite detective is slipping through your fingers?"

"Stop, Irene… Don't try and make this into a joke," he begged the woman and leaned his elbows against his thighs. "… If you don't want to answer that question, how about this one: Why are you still here?"

"I-"

John ploughed on before she had a chance to reply. "There's no reason for you to stay. You have connections, if it's protection you want, you don't really need Sherlock… But you just can't leave him, can you? _You need him_. You care about him, _you must_. You're both just hiding behind the cover of it being strictly sexual."

"_No._ I…"

"Sherlock's my best friend… Well, I'm basically his _only_ friend. At least I was 'til _you_ came along. The thing is, Sherlock's special. As you know, of course. He needs someone to take care of him. No, that's not the words I'm looking for. He needs…"

"…someone who cares for him," Irene finished for him and her eyes were downcast.

"Yes. _Exactly_. If he doesn't have someone close, I fear he'll become something that's not… human anymore. That doesn't feel or care or lives anything akin to a life."

The woman shook her head and met the doctor's gaze once more. "He'll always have his detective stories, John. He'll never be completely alone as long as he has those."

"Alone? No," John shook his head in agreement. "Alive? Not that either. He has _us_ now. I think we've made Sherlock Holmes as human as Sherlock Holmes can be. I don't think going back to his detective stories would be the same as before if he had to do it alone now. He's not the same man he was back when he was lonely."

"…What do you want from me?" the question was raw, anxious and seemed to exude from Irene's heart. In the woman's eyes shone a confused fear not even she seemed able to analyze.

"Just to know your intentions. If you intend to stay. You left him once and he behaved very peculiar. I told you then that he seemed heartbroken, but I don't know how to interpret it. My point is, I don't think you can leave again without it having worse effects on him."

The words of their meeting four years back echoed in their memories now, as they faced each other now. _He's writing sad music! He doesn't eat, barely talks… only to correct the television. I'd say he was heartbroken, but he's Sherlock…_

"You mean to tell me he loves me?" Irene asked innocently, though there was an unmistakable gleam to her pale eyes.

"Maybe," the man shrugged in all honesty. "I don't know. What I do know is that he does care for you now. But I don't think Sherlock knows to what extent he cares."

"No," the fair woman shook her head and suddenly there was defeat in her eyes. John realized that he had at last cracked one of her defensive walls as she sighed and explained her viewpoint, "I _intrigue_ him. As long as I am a puzzle to solve for him, he will remain intrigued and want to keep me by his side. If I stay, John, I fear he will one day figure me out. I can't let him do that."

"Why?"

Irene shrugged and hugged the pillow tighter. "As soon as he does, he'll grow tired of me. I'll no longer be of interest to him. He'll toss me out like a broken toy."

John frowned at her notion. "I hardly see Sherlock losing interest in you so easily."

"I do. You and I both know where his heart truly lies; in his mysteries. When he grows tired, he moves on. I'd rather break his heart than have him break mine."

"So you do love him?"

"John…" the woman's eyes drifted away from the man in the armchair before her.

The man couldn't give up now, not when he was so close to a confession. "It's a simple enough question. Do you love him?"

"I can't-" Irene began, her eyes still gazing past his shoulder.

John interrupted once more, "Correction; You _couldn't. _I get it, when you were a dominatrix, it wasn't practical to fall in love. But you're not in that business anymore. In fact, Sherlock's grooming you to be a consultant detective with him. He wants you to be a permanent part of his future. That has to mean _something_!"

The woman tossed her pillow aside in a way that suggested a hasty finish and stood from her seat in one fluid motion. "This was a lovely conversation, John. Let's talk more some other time."

The doctor frowned a second before realization struck him. "…He's behind me, isn't he?"

From somewhere behind him, the dark, dulcet voice of Sherlock Holmes answered, "He's been here quite a long time actually."

The other man grimaced and glanced up at the woman ahead of him. "Did you know?"

Irene's impassive face spoke volumes in response. "I wish I had known sooner."

Without another word, the woman walked out of the room and past the detective, who stood at the top of the stairs still clad in his long cloak. The curly-haired man glanced back as she descended the stairs, put on her robe and stepped outside without explanation.

Silence fell over the living room once more and John tried to search for the right words to confront his friend.

It was Sherlock who broke the tense silence first however. From his tone of voice, the man wasn't entirely pleased with his friend's interference, "I appreciate your attempt to _protect_ me, John, but it's unnecessary, I assure. I've already explained it to you. The new dimension to my complex relationship with Irene is… a way to focus my mind, if you will. So you see, there's really no need for protection. From you or anybody else."

The blond man sighed. He was getting rather tired of both Sherlock and Irene's attempts of closing their eyes from the obvious truth. He stood from his chair and turned to face his friend. "Yes, there is, Sherlock. You just won't admit it. And I hate to say it, - no, honestly, I _really_ hate to admit this – but Irene might be the only one who actually can protect you."

The tall man frowned down at his friend in confusion. "Protect me from what?"

"I thought you heard what I told her. From yourself. I'm probably the last person who understand what you two share, but maybe you should define _it_."

Sherlock kept on denying, "There's _nothing_ to define."

"I think there is," John disagreed just as stubbornheartedly. "And I think if you don't, she'll be gone sooner than you realize. Do you want her to leave? Be _honest_."

The question was one the detective had clearly not expected and for a second, it seemed the other man wouldn't answer at all. At length he confessed a low, "… No."

The doctor felt relief wash over him to at last have a revelation, though small it was. "Then stop denying the truth and deal with it. Whatever _it_ may be."

Sherlock's gaze searched his friend's for the answer to his next question. It was obvious the genius himself had no reply to it. "…What would you call it, John?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. Love?"

"I bet you think love is a mystery to me, John, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very disruptive… _Love_? How could I love her?" the man frowned indignantly.

"I bet without much difficulty."

Sherlock shook his head and stepped over to the window. "No… no. That's where you're very wrong indeed. It would be difficult for me."

"Why? I'm not telling you it's going to be easy. I'm telling you it's going to be worth it."

Sherlock did not weaken in his stance. His shoulders squared as he explained himself, "It's a _weakness_, John."

The other rolled his eyes behind his friend's back. "…_'A weakn'_-Don't be silly. Sometimes you have a very flawed logic for being such a logical person."

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage, it makes even the strongest man weak of mind."

"…Give me a minute to try and put this in a way that you will understand," John said and thought hard for a second before the perfect example struck him. "Ah, yes! Remember when we first met and you looked at my phone given to me by my sister."

Sherlock grimaced and glared back at his friend. "Is this about me missing the small detail that Harry was in fact a Harriet? I don't like to relive past mistakes."

"It's about_ the phone_! You said that if Clara had been the one who had left my sister, Harry wouldn't have given it away."

"Mm, yes. That's what people do. Keep sentimental trifles and all that…" the detective nodded a second before his eyes widened in realization. "I see. You think since I kept Irene's stripped phone almost four years ago, it was a display of sentiment towards her? It wasn't."

"Then what was it? What reason could you _possibly_ have to keep a useless phone if _not_ for sentimental value?"

The other man frowned once more. "What – do you record everything I say? You're over-analyzing this. I thought you were another sort of doctor-"

"_Sherlock!_" John hissed in irritation and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to recollect his thoughts and patience. "You say love is a weakness, I say love gives life a purpose. Tell me, you love me, don't you? _As a friend_."

"Oh. If you could call it love… I guess."

"For God's sake, you faked your own death to keep me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade alive!" the other man argued. "Had it been people you hadn't cared for, you wouldn't have, Sherlock. By your own logic, your actions would make you weak."

"Well, it's true in theory. I suppose."

"Would you give any of us up then? To become your definition of _strong_? Or does our friendship make it worth the risk?"

The tall man seemed reluctant to admit the truth. "...No. I wouldn't give you up. But that was different, I-"

John shook his head fiercely. "_No_. I won't let you talk your way out of that one. You would have died to save the people you care for, and don't pretend it was simply because you'd already planned how to fake it with your brother and Molly's help! You still gave up your life for us. You'd do it again in a heartbeat. And why? Because it's easy dying for someone if you care for them."

"I-"

"You've saved my life numerous times and I yours. Would you call that- what did you say- _a dangerous disadvantage_?"

"Well. When you put it like that…"

The blond man could see his friend's arguments weaken, too, and knew he had gotten through to him at least in some peripheral way. "No, Sherlock. _Whichever _way you put it. Love will always make it worth the risk, even if you sometimes lose. It's only a disadvantage, if you let it be."

"Stop trying to deduce and for God's sake stop lecture me, John. It's not your forte," the detective muttered in defeat. "Besides there's nothing I don't understand already."

"Except love," John said simply and the detective remained silent. "Courage is resistance to love, master of love – not absence of love."

The tall man tilted his head sideways with a confused frown upon his handsome face. "Mark Twain. And I do believe you mean 'fear'. Not 'love'."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "I think to you, they're the same."

* * *

><p>Later during the evening, as Irene and Sherlock readied themselves for bed, a tense silence took up most of the space in the bedroom. While the woman brushed her hair before the mirror, the man slowly changed into his pj's. Though they were in the same chamber, both knew in mind they might as well have been on opposite ends of the world.<p>

Through the mirror, the woman kept sneaking glances at the man and his dark curls, attempting to figure out his thoughts and what John could have said to him after she'd left. At length, the woman put the brush down on the table and decided to keep to the path the two had opted to walk down.

"He means well," she began and concentrated hard to keep all signs of emotion from her dulcet tones. "Still, John has quite the imagination, hasn't he? I would venture a guess that his wish for us to talk is... founded in his own fears of change."

Without turning from the closet, Sherlock nodded. "You mean because he's decided to devote more time on his marriage and less on crime solving. He and Mary are having their child - _obviously_ a daughter - soon."

The detective sighed as he walked over and sank onto the covers on his side of the bed. Somehow, talking about his relationship with his friend was easier than discussing their own. At least he had John all figured out, the same could not be said about the mysterious woman sitting before him in her peignoir. "I knew it on his wedding day. It was impossible to misread the signs. ... It really is the end of an era, isn't it?"

"Always the dramatic flare. It's not. He won't be gone," the woman assured and turned to face the man. "All things change, it's only a matter of time. Besides, you'll have me around. One way or the other."

"You can't replace John," Sherlock commented bluntly.

Irene smirked devilishly at the man. "I know. I'm not trying to. I don't want to fill another man's shoes, I have my own stilettos."

The man threw her a halfhearted, crooked grin. "That you do."

The woman knew she was heading for dangerous waters, but still couldn't resist prodding the detective a little bit more. "He did ask interesting questions, however. Though I think he was off about our relationship, it did get me thinking. When Mycroft was here after the explosion at Big Ben, you described me as your adversary…"

The man frowned over at her. His clear eyes seemed to question how she had not been able to understand him back then. "Just because I said it, doesn't mean I meant it."

Irene contemplated his statement and then retorted, "Even a lie – much as a disguise- reflects the truth."

The dark-haired man exhaled deeply and from the look in his eyes he was about to put an end to their discussion before it got awkward. When he spoke, however, his question surprised her, "Do you have a word that defines _us_ then?"

Irene smiled as she rose and moved to straddle the detective. He put both arms around her waist as she wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I think not everything needs to be defined or labeled. Some things can just be what they are. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock's reply was to press his lips against hers with an insatiable hunger.

* * *

><p>Moriarty felt the sweet scent of victory linger on the air as his victim's eyes turned wide with fear. The fair woman's breathing came more and more panic as her heart sped up. The slim, ivory skinned woman tried to back away, but there was no way to run. She was cornered and they both knew it. He had caught her in his little web and now she would never see the light of day again.<p>

Her rich, copper hair shone beneath the pale lamps and her blue eyes never left his face as he slowly stepped closer.

"Hullo… Kate," Moriarty greeted slowly, unable to let the opportunity to play with his prey one last time slip through his fingers.

She swallowed and braced herself. With more bravery than she seemed to possess, she managed, "Who… who are you? W-what do you want with me?"

"We're gonna have some fun, you and I… Then you're going to die," the criminal assured as he moved in for the kill. "But don't worry, dear. It's all necessary pain, you see. This is the my first move in the game that will end Sherlock Holmes..."

* * *

><p><em>Let the games begin.<br>_


	17. Moriarty's ultimate weapon

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>17. Moriarty's ultimate weapon<strong>

The following day, Sherlock awoke early by the morning light piercing through his bedroom window. As the detective suppressed a yawn he came aware of a gentle pressure on his chest. As he gazed down, he found his vision blurred by a mane of chocolate colored, curly hair. It carried a scent of gentle lavender that slowly filled his nostrils.

The man realized he had grown accustomed to Irene and her scent around him. The idea of any such familiarity towards anyone was entirely new to Sherlock, and he was still not sure how he felt about it. The idea of sex and closeness, which previously had been unwanted enigmas, had began to make sense to the man's unique brain. Warm skin on skin, breathing synchronized in perfect echo, two bodies moving together as one.

He had to hand it to _The woman_, she had promised him an outlet for his brilliance and she had delivered. Sherlock believed he now understood why John had gone through so many girlfriends over the years.

_This_, too – awakening beside the woman – was a tradition he didn't mind terribly.

As if sensing he had awoken, the fair brunette on his chest stirred with a disgruntled moan as the light outside played on her ivory pale skin above the covers.

There was a knock against the closed door and through the wood, John's voice inquired softly, "Sherlock? You awake? Lestrade just phoned me and I came right over. Said he'd be here, too, soon with an emergent case for us."

"I'll be right up," the detective replied at once and pried himself free from his lover's grasp.

"Must you?" Irene's tired, muffled voice asked as she tiredly snuggled into his pillow now that the man had disappeared from her grasp. The man couldn't help but smile down at the woman in his bed. When her stay at Baker Street had begun he hadn't expected she could sometimes be more unwilling to rise in the mornings than either her flat mate.

Sherlock swiftly dressed into his pj's and as he reached for the blue fabric that hung over the back of the chair, Irene's soft voice stopped him. "Dibs on the robe."

The man sighed indignantly and threw the garment atop her slim form beneath the covers.

* * *

><p>Less than ten minutes later, the grey-haired policeman knocked on the door to 221 B and was swiftly let in. Lestrade patted John's arm in a friendly greeting as the two hurried up the stairs. The blond man couldn't hide the pained hiss that escaped past his lips. The doctor swore internally as he gazed up and realized Sherlock and Irene, who both stood in the kitchen, had heard his pained groan. The silence seemed tense and thick, though John prayed that was simply his imagination.<p>

"What's happened to your arm?" Lestrade frowned.

"Eh," the man tried to think of an answer that wouldn't automatically set his friend's keen mind off. "Just rough massage at the spa this weekend, you know."

The inspector nodded and then let the topic slide as he turned to face the detective consultant in the room. It was plain to them all that these were pressing times and there was no room for small talk.

"A little over an hour ago, we got a report about a missing, Irish woman," the policeman explained while he dug through his deep coat pockets to retrieve something. "Half an hour ago, _this" _– he withdrew a small package and put it on the kitchen table in the center of the room – "arrived at the police station with a personal note for _you_, Sherlock. It's from Moriarty."

The detective frowned down at the small, wrapped box before him. It was off-white with a small, paper rose atop, which seemed a stark contrast to the darkness which ruled the criminal's mind. A small note was attached between two of the flower's thorns. "What's it got to do with the missing woman?"

"Read the note," Lestrade encouraged gruffly. "I can't make a lick of sense from it."

The detective picked up the card and recited for the others, " 'Hullo, Sherlock! Are you ready to meet your maker? Let us start your demise with a treasure hunt! Not quite the whole missing woman awaits at your first destination. XOXO ~ The Alpha and the Omega (P.S: For the idiot police - J. Moriarty)'."

John frowned as he tried to interpret the meaning of the message while he distantly opened the box on the table. It was filled with white cotton to the brim. The doctor carefully began picking at the soft contents. "What does he mean by 'not quite the who-_Oh my god_!"

He dropped the package back onto the table in shock and along with Lestrade, Sherlock and Irene gazed down at what he had revealed in the midst of the cotton; a severed finger with a red-painted nail at its tip. The dark-haired man handed the card to the woman as he enthusiastically picked the finger from the carton and inspected it closely. From his left, the woman gazed from the card to the red-painted nail in the detective's hands.

"Do you…" she began slowly and turned in Lestrade's direction, "…have a name for the missing woman?"

The police man nodded. "Her name is Katherine Brannick. Age 29, I believe."

Irene's face turned ashen and she swayed slightly where she stood. John hurried round the table to lend her a steadying hand as she sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. It seemed all energy had been sucked out of her small body and left her fragile. Even Sherlock was pulled from his deep concentration to gaze at the woman's peculiar behavior. The man's eyes zoomed in on the shifts in her appearance. Her face was colorless, her eyes widen and her breathing erratic. He wanted to understand what was going on in her thoughts, but knew she would never answer if he asked out loud.

Instead, the detective allowed himself a second to consider all details he'd learned about her during the time they had known each other. He only needed that short time span before realization hit him. The man frowned and glanced down at the severed finger in his hand.

"_Kate_," he said shortly and the word echoed in the tense silence. The other men frowned up at him. "Katherine is Kate. Isn't she?"

Irene's wide eyes found the man's and through the mute conversation between their gazes, he knew he had struck gold.

"…Who's _Kate_?" Lestrade asked at length when it was clear no further explanation would come voluntarily.

"My eldest friend," the woman sighed and stood from the seat once more and returned to the detective's side. The sparkle in her eyes had faded, along with all other emotions, as she glanced down at the finger in his hand. Still, the blank expression on her face seemed to convey all the sadness of the world. "You've met her, too, John. She was an associate of mine."

"Oh, your… eh, secretary?" The short man was brought back to the very first time he and Sherlock had visited her home in Belgravia in hopes of duping the dominatrix. How long ago all of that seemed now. And yet, with Moriarty's apparent new game, maybe the past wasn't so distant after all.

Irene smiled sadly. "Not quite. But something to that effect... She was above all a confidant."

"Your _only_ friend," Sherlock pointed out bluntly and let his eyes travel briefly to John's form before turning his gaze back to the woman beside him. If things had been reversed, and it had been his best friend who had gone missing in this fashion, the detective knew his own reaction would be more than moderate.

"Obviously she's part of Moriarty's game because of _me_," the woman swallowed, unwilling to admit more about her own heart.

"Have you seen her recently?" the policeman asked gently.

Irene cleared her throat and shook her head. John noticed how Sherlock leaned somewhat toward her, though was positive the detective wasn't aware he was doing it himself. Either way, the brunette seemed to draw strength from his closeness for she hastily continued, "Not at all since returning to England. I haven't spoken to her in over four years. I thought she would be safe this way… I was wrong."

"She'll be alright," the curly-haired man attempted to assure her in a soft voice.

The woman shook her head. "You said it yourself, Sherlock. Moriarty isn't a philanthropist. He doesn't let people live. Besides, she's merely a pawn. It's _you_ he wants. "

"_No_," Sherlock reassured and forced her to meet his piercing gaze. "I'll find Kate before he gets to her. She _will_ be fine."

Irene gazed into his blue pools and saw his determination burn strong as a flame within him. She slowly nodded and inhaled deeply. She wanted to draw from his confidence, but knew she feared Moriarty more than she trusted in the detective. "I suppose this could mean he's using Kate as a decoy. If we go after her, something worse might happen to us."

"We'll take our chances," John assured with a kind smile on his gentle features. "Figured out the message, Sherlock?"

The detective glared down at the piece of paper that rested on the table top before him. "Maybe. 'First destination'. And here, look at the signature… _Alpha and Omega_. Where it began, it will also end. Full circle."

Lestrade frowned. "Where did it begin?"

The doctor shrugged, "…The swimming hall where we first met Moriarty?"

"_Or_ the basement he brought me to on new year's eve," Sherlock pointed out. "The platform for his return and the beginning of this final game."

The grey-haired police cleared his throat and gazed at the ingenious detective. "Well, which is it, Sherlock?"

The tall man shook his head and turned to meet the policeman's gaze. "We should check out both places."

"Fine," Lestrade nodded. "I'll take someone with me to the swimming hall and you can check out the basement. I'd implore you to wait for one of my men to accompany you, but you won't will you?"

* * *

><p>As John kicked open the door, Sherlock swiftly entered with his gun raised. The basement was almost entirely darkened and abandoned, much as it had been last time he'd been down there. The only exception was that this time, a lamp in the ceiling blinked at the centre of the room where the detective's chair had stood on his last visit. Lying on the ground in the light from above was a small object. The trio advanced slowly towards it.<p>

"_What the_-?" John frowned as he crouched next to the item. He picked it up in his hand and stared at it in disbelief. "A dead fish…?"

The detective gazed down at the fish that dripped a dark-colored liquid onto the dirty floor. "Painted red. It's a _red herring_. Clever play of words."

Behind the two men, Irene leaned forward and placed both hands on her knees as she inhaled a couple of deep breaths. Sherlock took notice of her sudden reaction and hurried over to her side. As he came close, he placed a hand on her back for comfort and support. "You okay?"

"You realize what this means, don't you?" she asked as she stood tall once more and her eyes danced with hidden tears. "Kate's dead."

Her dark words had barely passed her lips as a low humming noise echoed in the vast shadows of the room. All the sudden the stone wall close by was lit up from a video source. The trio turned towards the improvised big screen that seemed to take up most of the wall before them. The wide image flickered twice before Moriarty's smiling face appeared and the recorded video message began.

"Are you up for another story, Sherlock?" the recording of Jim spoke with glee shining in his dark eyes. "This one isn't entirely about Sir Boast-a-lot, but it's still rather good. This story is about Lady Misbehave. She was the fairest of all the maidens in the kingdom, and the favorite of Sir Boast-a-lot. Though he believed they could find happiness together, the Lady had other plans. The Lady was only interested in _misbehaving_, and so went behind her knight's back to do dark deeds with Sir Boast-a-lot's nemesis. Oh, can true love win when our brave knight finds out about his Lady's misbehaving?"

Sherlock turned his gaze towards the woman by his side in hope of getting some sort of explanation out of her. Irene, however, had closed her eyes tight in dread of what was to come. The man couldn't help but be more confused by her reaction and hurriedly turned back to gaze at the video message.

"Don't believe me, Sherlock?" Moriarty's innocent voice continued. "Well, I always believed some fairy tales made better movies than books. So here's the feature film of our dark love story. Enjoy the show, I know I did!"

With those words the image flickered again and before Sherlock, John or Irene could react, the video jumped to a new scene. The detective felt his heart sink at the images that now played before him on the big screen. This part of the film was obviously recorded by a surveillance camera up in the corner of a ceiling. The date at the bottom told him it had been filmed five weeks ago, the night before Big Ben had exploded. The recording showed the insides of what appeared to be a very expensive hotel room.

In the centre of the shot stood a grand bed and upon it sat none other than Jim Moriarty himself, dressed in nothing but boxers, a tie and hand cuffs. As the trio watched, a slender, familiar figure entered the picture from the bottom-hand corner.

It was _The woman_.

It was undoubtedly and unmistakably Irene Adler herself, the detective was certain as he gazed intently at the recording. She wore bold, red lingerie, that seemed to expose more than it concealed, and was wielding a riding crop as she walked towards the man on the bed. There was a smug smirk visible on her profile that spoke a great deal of upcoming misbehaving. Sherlock found that his eyes could not stray from the image even as she straddled the criminal and proceeded to do far more R rated things then he wished to see.

From his side, he faintly heard Irene's voice calling to him now, "Sherlock…"

With a set jaw, he turned and looked straight at her. Her pale eyes were pleading with him but what she wanted from him, the man neither could nor wanted to read. He kept his face impassive as he beheld her a second longer. At last, he looked away and strode with wide steps towards the exit.

"Sherlock-" the woman called after him again.

"_Don't_," He said in a short, abrupt tone and then exited the cellar.

Irene gazed after him with a pained expression even as he disappeared out of view. In the silence that followed, she slowly turned her gaze in John's direction.

The doctor's eyes showed hurt, too, for his friend's sake. He shook his head slowly, as if trying to find a way to portray the immense deception he felt in regards to her. Finally, John glanced back to the screen and asked, "…Why did you do it?"

Irene smiled sadly. "I didn't."

With those simple words, she turned on her heel and, too, exited the cellar as she withdrew her phone from her pocket and dialed a familiar number. She held the phone close to her ear and waited for the person on the other end to reply.

"It's me," she said at last when the person did. "We need to talk."

* * *

><p>The woman ran up the stairs to the flat and turned towards the bedroom. Even as she came towards him, Sherlock barely registered her presence. Irene stopped right outside the door and took a peek inside at what the man was doing. He was hurriedly packing all her belongings into a bag, prepared to throw her out in a heartbeat.<p>

"Can we talk?"

"Of course," the man conceded and stopped what he was doing. For a second, she felt relief wash over her, but it was soon washed away as he swiftly moved towards the door. "Just not with each other. Good bye, Ms Adler."

With those parting words, he slammed the door shut in her face. Irene gazed up at the closed door before her and drew a shuddering breath. He was shutting her out then, both literally and physically.

"You're not even listening to me!" she called through the door. "Let me explain. _Please._"

She held her breath and waited. The seconds felt like minutes before the door knob finally turned and the clever man swung the door open. "Alright. Fine. Explain then."

The fury in his cold, pale eyes threw the woman for a second. "I... You don't understand. Listen-"

Sherlock interrupted her with a short, mocking laughter. "Why? Do we really need more words? A picture says more than a thousand words, after all."

"But the _truth_ says more-" she tried once more, but he didn't let her finish this time either.

"Truth? A lie reflects the truth, wasn't that what you said to me? …'Ms Adler's not ordinary. She's more like you and I', 'She never did tie a knot I managed to undo'… All along, Moriarty was dropping me hints. You've lied to me all along, playing your game… _Misbehaving_. I should have known, after all you've spent a lifetime deceiving everyone around you. You are treacherous, and some people never change."

The tall man expected her to retort, but he was met with silence. With a disappointed sigh, he turned around, picked up the packed suitcase from his bed and handed it to her. With a sigh, she took it from his hands and left Baker Street.

* * *

><p>Irene opened the door to the small Irish pub and stepped inside. The old school, comfortable bar was almost empty, besides from a couple of established customers. Her eyes barely noticed them as her eyes were immediately drawn to the lone man on one of the bar stools by the counter. He wore a stylish, grey suit, his hair was slicked back and his scruff was well-trimmed as always.<p>

Jim Moriarty looked up at her and smiled. "Oh, good. You're here. I was _very glad_ you called. Come closer and listen to this. I've changed the ringtone on my phone. What do you think?"

As Irene walked up to stand behind the bar stool next to the criminal mastermind, the man turned on Michael Buble's cover of _I'm feeling good_. The jazzy music seemed a stark contrast to everybody's moods, except for Moriarty's sunshine smile.

"_And I'm fee-eeling gooood_," he sang along to the tunes and smiled down at his phone_._ "I rather like the jazzy feel to this cover. Do you? No? You seem upset. Want a shoulder to cry on? ...Or perhaps a good fuck?"

The beauty squared her shoulders and glared down at him. "Why did you do it, Jim?"

"You know why, my dear," Moriarty commented with a sigh as he swirled a glass of whiskey on the rocks in his hand.

Irene shook her head. "I don't. Why did you pull me into the middle of your game with Sherlock?"

The man looked up at her with an innocent, scolding look. "You crossed me, love."

She didn't buy it for a second. "If it was _just _about revenge, I'd be dead by now."

"Would you like me to go after him instead then?" the innocence in his voice was anything but genuine as he blinked up at her.

Jim smirked devilishly and Irene frowned as she chose to ignore the implication. "I don't care what you do to him. I simply want to be left out of it. I only play my own games."

"Ah. Methinks the lady doth protest too much… It's a little bit too late for that now, wouldn't you agree?" Moriarty said and reached out for the chain around her neck. As his fingers caressed the spy glass at the tip, the smug expression returned to his features. "Think about it. You never were a 'free woman'."

"What are you talking about?

The criminal's glee turned into surprise as he saw the confusion still written plainly across her face. "You're serious. Oh, this is awkward… I thought you lied because you wanted to protect both your hearts, but now I see… You simply don't know the truth. _Think_, dear. I've observed you all this time..."

"Observed? What -" Irene stopped herself but her words fell short as realization hit her in the face.

Moriarty's dark eyes sparkled as he noticed her sudden change. "I think the lady got it!"

"It's all been tests within tests, haven't it?" she asked in a quivering voice. "When you had Sherlock drugged, I assumed it was to cover up your attempt to kill me… but it didn't stop there, did it? _That_ was in turn simply a cover up to observe Sherlock's reaction. How he would react when I was in grave danger. That's why you were so persistent in believing I could be his weakness.. It's also the reason why I'm at the center of your game. You've been testing to see if I can be used as a pawn to complete the destruction of Sherlock Holmes."

"_She hits the bulls-eye at last_!" the man celebrated and held up his glass in a salute to her brilliance. "And I now know my deductions were correct! Oh, the cleverness of me! You see it, don't you? I created a self-fulfilling prophecy in believing you two could affect each other's hearts in a way no one else could."

Irene shook her head and grimaced at the man in plain disgust. "No, you failed. It didn't work. Your last attempt didn't affect him. He doesn't care."

"On the contrary, my dear, I think he does care. More than he knows."

"Don't be silly. Sherlock Holmes has never been _in love_, he isn't incapable of loving anyone besides himself in that way."

"Oh, stop! _Stop with your petty lies_!" Moriarty bellowed and the woman barely managed to keep from stepping back in fright. The mad man calmed himself down just as quickly as he'd flared and continued, "We both know that's not true..."

"I'm telling you: _he doesn't care_."

"But you do?" the man's innocent voice questioned.

"I don't want to play anymore, Jim. I suggest you back off fast."

"Oooh, was that a _threat_? I think I'm beginning to like this little chat. Did you bring your whip? _I do love your whip_," Moriarty cooed.

"If you ever tasted my whip I guarantee you wouldn't like it!" Irene hissed and slapped him hard and swift across the face using the tips of her nails to draw blood. The man pressed one hand to his face even as she saw a few drops of red stain his cheek. She felt immense satisfaction at the surprised look in the mad man's eyes. The brunette stepped closer and glared at the man without a shred of fear in her body. In a low voice, she managed, "That was for Kate…"

Moriarty gently dabbed a napkin against his bleeding cheek as his smile slowly returned. "Sorry about your dear friend, but it was a necessary cost, you see."

He had known all along that the only way he could ever get _The woman_ where he wanted so that she would turn on Sherlock, he had to take away everything from her. He had in one, ingenious move succeeded in permanently removing her best friend, Sherlock's love for her and everybody's trust in her. The woman that stood before him now had nothing to lose. And that was exactly where he needed her.

Clueless to his train of thought, Irene asked, "How much did it cost?"

Moriarty let her lead as he followed her line of thought, "Quite a lot. But worth every penny to have someone find an old sex tape of you and mash it together with a different one featuring yours truly. It was _true perfection_ seeing the look on Sherlock's face as he got to watch my feature film. Don't you agree?"

"You won't win, Moriarty. You won't kill him…"

"You are getting on my last nerve! _Someone_ must die, Ms Adler!" the criminal shouted and threw his glass of whiskey across the room. He closed his eyes and calmed himself down as the entire bar grew quiet. "…Question is: '_who?'_"

Irene didn't even flinch at the man's tantrum. "Sherlock will win the war. Just as he has won everything so far against you."

"No… _no_, Ms Adler. He may have gotten the upper hand in a few smaller battles, but he can't win the war. No matter how hard he tries, he can never beat the evils that exist in this world. …Aren't I just the perfect example of that?"

The ex-dominatrix frowned. "He has beaten you repeatedly."

"But never won..." Jim corrected her with a pointed look.

Irene shook her head and sighed in defeat. "Whatever happens, count me out. Your plan backfired and I won't have anything more to do with either you or Sherlock…"

As she turned to go, Moriarty called her back. "Where are you going, dear? We're just getting started here. You're not getting out of here until you promise me you will help me destroy Sherlock."

The slim woman froze. Slowly, the woman turned back to gaze at the man on the bar stool. His eyes shone with honest expectation and it was Irene's turn to be surprised. At length, she managed a low, "…You're mad."

Moriarty smiled in amusement. "Sherlock seemed to catch on to that fact late in our friendship, too. …You'll still help me, though."

"You are truly insane if you think I won't refuse."

"I'm not giving you much of a choice here. If you won't help me… I'll _kill_ him; point blank, no more games... I admit, it won't be as fun, but I _will_ do it. Don't doubt that for a second! …I just want him a broken man before our final game."

"… That's not fair play."

"Fair play is for the _other_ _side_, Ms Adler. Not for people like you and I. We never play fair… and that's why we always win. Well, at least _I_ always do. Besides, if you let me kill him now, you'll never know if he could have outsmarted me one last time."

"What do you want from me?"

"It's quite in your area of expertise. _Burn his heart_… until only the ashes of a broken man remains. Destroy his heart or I'll destroy him," Moriarty explained in a dark, passionate voice and his gaze seemed to penetrate all the woman's defences to bare her soul to the world. "I realized something, Ms Adler. All this time I've tried to destroy him… The easy way, the hard way. Through media, threatening his friends. From without and from within. But it's never worked. And I've finally figured out why. While his brother did give me the perfect ammunition, I've never had the _ultimate_ _weapon_ to destroy him. Now I do. Because I have you. And I can finally win…"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	18. The die is cast

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>18. The die has been cast<strong>

"_Caring is not an advantage, … Sherlock. All hearts are broken. All lives end."_

The detective's fingers distractedly plucked at the strings of his violin, playing no particular tune, as he sat by the fire place. His brother's comment four years back kept echoing over and over in his head, but Sherlock couldn't figure out why.

When his brother had said it to him, he hadn't payed much attention to the chosen words at all. He hadn't believed the words could be meant for him. Still, they chose this moment to return and haunt him like a ghost from his past. The words seemed to grow stronger and louder, too, as they echoed in the deep recesses of his solitary mind. For some reason, the echoes paradoxaly were his only companion while amplifying his loneliness.

_All_ hearts couldn't be broken. His heart couldn't… could it?

Suddenly, a different noise interrupted the haunting echoing inside his head. It was the sound of the creaking stairs once more.

"I thought I made it clear last time," Sherlock's voice was sharp and dark, seeming to blend with the shadows in the living room.

The woman stopped at the top of the stairs and gazed at the detective seated in his armchair in the poorly lit room.

His posture was stiff and his eyes relentless. Had Irene doubted before, she needn't had worried as she saw it written in the man's pale, blue eyes now. For the first time, she realized Moriarty could have been correct in his assumptions. She could do this. She could break him. The thought frightened her to no end, but still she knew she had no other choice.

"You're not welcome here," the man's deep voice floated over to her.

Irene inhaled, letting her lungs fill with the misbehaving air she needed to complete this task. She had always been a great actress, still she had to be an even better one to fool the master of deduction that sat before her. As she stepped forward, a devilish smirk grazed her lips. "I've come to set the record straight, my dear."

"I don't want-" the man began but the woman was faster and interrupted him.

"You thought you won, but you never did," the woman began and the seductiveness in her eyes glowed strong in the shadows.

For a minute, the man merely glared up at her. When he spoke, his voice was more of a growl than simple words, "I disagree."

"Oh, I know you do, you poor man. You thought you beat me at my own game, because of _sentiment,"_ Irene said and laughed in mockery of the man before her. "But it wasn't the end back then. It was barely the beginning."

Sherlock frowned up at her and awaited her explanation as he tried to keep up his cool facade.

The woman swiftly continued as she walked closer towards him. She felt like a lioness circling her pray. She didn't need to say it, they both knew she had the upper hand this time. "You took away everything from me. My life, my future… _Everything_. You drove me into constant darkness. You think sentiment survives or can ever be revived after that? You thought any of this – any of these past months of _bliss_ – could be real?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time as his eyes searched hers, hoping to see a glimpse of her protected soul. Whatever he saw, made him frown in the end as he discarded the violin on the floor and stood from his seat. "It's _all_ been a game…"

"I told you it would be," the fair woman shrugged her eyebrows and gazed up at the tall man. Though she was smaller in size, she knew she was no smaller in mind. All she had to do was hold her course now, and all would be sealed. The sooner, the better, she knew, because she could already feel her heart ache in ways it never had before. As soon as she was done here, she could leave it all behind her. Or at least try to.

"The new game you were hinting about from the day you returned… It wasn't just _your_ game, was it?"

"...It was a set-up all along," she lied. "Every step of the way; it was all false. Rescuing you from the hands of the devil, pretending I was his nemesis too, growing closer to you until I got under your skin... A_ game_, nothing more. You did right to think I wasn't trustworthy. You should never distrust such a fine gut instinct, but despite all logic, you did... You see it now, don't you, when you look back at all the steps that took us up to _this _moment?"

"You were working for him all along then? Or was it just for the sex you stuck with him?"

"If I'm the mistress of misbehaving, Moriarty is the master," Irene shrugged. "We have a lot in common. We both love games… and we both hate you."

The detective's eyes darkened briefly. "You lied to me."

The brunette pretended to toy with her man. "Oh, don't take it personal, dear… I lie to everybody."

"You're lying right now."

"No, this is just me _misbehaving_," Irene corrected him swiftly and smirked up at the detective. "You were always the moth to my flame. Never the other way around. But you got too close to the fires, and now you'll burn for it…"

Sherlock took one slow step closer to the woman and stepped right into her personal space. His eyes burned down at her with a darkness she never wanted to see directed at her again. The man simply growled a threatening, "It's time you left."

Irene merely raised her chin and innocently questioned, "You want me to stop?"

"_Yes_," he hissed with more fury than she'd ever seen the man possess.

"Too bad!" she winked up at him and stepped around him to gaze out the window briefly before turning back. "I'm just getting warmed up. I had to lie to you, to get this far… It was the only way to throw you off."

"_Nothing_ throws me off," Sherlock argued.

"I did," the woman spoke with a mischievous tone to her voice. She had to drive the last nails into Sherlock's emotional coffin and so chose her next words carefully, "Tell me, do I detect sentiment in your voice now? I suppose you were right then... Sentiment _is_ a chemical defect found in the _losing part_."

"I haven't lost yet," he commented in a dry voice.

The woman smirked. "Yes, you have."

Their eyes met across the abyss that seemed to separate them from each other. The bridge they had built over the past couple of months had burned and only the ashes remained of the path that had existed across the divide. Now there was no other way across.

"He tried to kill you," Sherlock argued and his eyes once more searched hers for answers he knew she wouldn't willingly give. Despite seeing the fury burn strong within the man's eyes, Irene also noted a slight shade of disbelief in them.

She had been prepared for the question and shook her head in mock disappointment. "Did he though? You know just as I do, if Moriarty attempts something… he succeeds."

The detective let his mind wander back to the moments up in the bell tower. He allowed himself to see the situation with the eyes and mind he now had. Suddenly he saw new deductions appear before his inner eye. It was as if a veil had been torn from his eyes and allowed him to see clearly for the first time since Irene's return. "Then it was only for my reaction. You let him stab you so you could continue playing your game?"

The woman shrugged. "Necessary pains."

"And the death of Kate?"

There was a brief pause before she sighed. "I thought you were swifter than this. Of course I never cared for her. _Every_ step up 'til this moment have been necessary for the game to move forward. For your heart to weaken by sentiment."

"And this is… what? Your final strike?"

"Hurts more to be told the truth, doesn't it?" She asked in a dark voice and to her question the man had no answer. "...I beat you again."

"You've never beaten me."

"Twice now," Irene argued back. "This is the second time I see your heart... I know you never saw it coming.-"

"_Saw it coming?_" Sherlock fumed. "You are absolutely right, Ms Adler. I never did. I've always known the heart can weaken even the strongest mind if allowed control, but you made me lower my defenses for a second... And that was enough. Now you stab me in the back and prove I was right all along."

Though her heart broke beneath her flawless facade, the beautiful woman managed a cold smirk. "Consider my payback complete then. _This is the end_. You won't ever see me again-"

"_Good_," the man interjected swiftly with finality to his deep, dark voice. With one fluid motion, he turned his back on her and pretended to gaze out the window at the evening outside.

Irene finally let her eyes fall and exhaled once in order to recollect herself to complete the destruction. "Do us all a favor and accept your defeat, Mr Holmes. When I leave, move on. Don't face Moriarty, unless you have a death wish. You're already defeated, you won't win. Goodbye, Mr Holmes…"

The dark-haired man pondered her final words but kept his thoughts to himself. Having turned his back on the world, he simply heard the stairs creak once more as Irene descended and left Baker Street for the last time.

As the door closed, Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes tight.

* * *

><p>Irene wiped at a tear in the corner of her eye as she walked down the street towards the waiting car at the corner. She opened the backdoor and gracefully jumped inside. As she closed the door behind her, she kept her eyes ahead and her breathing even. She had to keep her flawless, indifferent mask up as to keep her emotions under control a little while longer. The last thing she wanted was for the man beside her to know how affected she had been to see the distraught fury in Sherlock's eyes.<p>

She wet her lips and slowly addressed the man beside her, "I've done everything you've asked of me… but I'm still not a free woman, am I?"

Moriarty seemed to consider her words for a minute, but Irene knew it was all part of his game. "…Not quite. But don't worry, dear, I only want _one_ more thing from you now."

Though the woman dreaded the answer, she managed a low, "… And what might that be?"

The man leaned closer until his breath tickled the side of her neck and Irene closed her eyes in fear of what was coming next.

"_Your life_," Moriarty hissed into her ear. He swiftly pulled out a syringe from his pocket and pressed the needle into her arm before she had time to react.

* * *

><p>A little while later, John hurried through the front door to Baker Street and rushed up the stairs.<p>

"Sherlock? _Sherlock_!" he called and stopped on the edge of the living room as he saw his best friend stand in the evening glow from the window with his back to him. "Good, you're here."

"It can't be a surprise to you, John," the other man said in a dry, emotionless voice but without turning around to face his friend. "I live here, after all."

"Lestrade called earlier. Said they found the dead body of that missing girl in the swimming hall…" the blond man said and stepped closer into the room. Sherlock still didn't react or turn around.

There was something tense in the air at 221 B Baker Street. John felt as if he was walking into a war zone after the battle had ended and all that remained was the smell of death and loss. Even as he beheld his best friend, he saw only the air of finality and aloofness in Sherlock's posture. A battle had been fought here today, and the doctor had a feeling there had been no real winner.

"…Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"Of course I'm alright," the detective replied in a short tone. John opened his mouth to comment, but Sherlock beat him to it. "She deceived us, John… She deceived _me_."

The blond man shook his head and said, "I don't think she did, Sherlock."

A minute seemed to pass before Sherlock turned his head far enough for John to see his doubtful profile illuminated by the pale light outside.

The short man hurried to explain his train of thought. "I stayed at the basement for awhile after you both left. I found the video source and a CD of the… eh, the… you know… I took it straight to Lestrade to check it out. I don't know why, Sherlock, but I just got this feeling… I think it's fake. The lab had a quick look but couldn't see anything, but I don't know… That's why I came home. I need your eyes to help me figure it out. You need to see it again."

Sherlock frowned in frustration. "You're out of your mind, John. Why would I want to see it again?"

The other man sighed as he walked over to the desk and his laptop. "I told you. I don't buy it. It… doesn't make any sense, does it?"

The detective looked as if he completely disagreed with his friend. "Ms Adler was just here to say goodbye… She explained it all. It makes complete sense. It's crystal clear to my head. And that means it's over..."

The other man raised his gaze and tried to read the impassive look in Sherlock's eyes. John had to agree that the video had changed everything, but after the first wave of disappointment had settled he had found his thoughts more clear.

As for as John cared, Irene had proven herself over and over to him. He had realized that all she had done since returning to London had been for Sherlock. Though she was a great actress, she wasn't great enough to pull such a scheme off, the doctor knew it in his heart. He was certain there had been no dubious motives in her heart.

"Listen…" John began slowly in an attempt to penetrate his friend's anger. "She told me never to tell you, but I think you need to hear this. When I was in Belfast-"

Sherlock sighed and fully turned to face his friend at last. "_I know, John_. Irene popped in for a surprise visit and tricked you into accompanying her to meet with a pakistanian assassin. Hazaar helped her escape in Karachi, you see... which I'm sure she told you all about."

The other man felt his jaw drop. "I know I shouldn't be surprised, but… how did you…?"

"Mycroft," the dark-haired man explained and John nodded in understanding. Sherlock began pacing through the living room as he continued, "Either way, you wound up shot in the arm, while she killed the man. Your tender arm was thus _not _caused by any rough massages…"

"Yes! Exactly!" the shorter man nodded as his eyes followed his friend across the room. "It was just a flesh wound though. Irene bet on the wrong assassin, I suppose. He was working for Moriarty, you see."

Sherlock stopped and tilted his head to the side. "So simple your mind is, John. So _slow_ in the sharp turns. It still hasn't wrapped itself around the new facts we've been given, has it? _It was all part of their game!_ ...You never found it odd that the assassin fired his gun at you and not Irene?"

John felt his frustration grow and he frantically shook his head. "No! Sherlock, _you weren't there_! You didn't see Irene kill a man to save us both. I know she's good, but no one can fake the kind of distress I saw in her eyes! ...I'm telling you, it was _real_."

"Not to be condescending about your powers of perception-"

"_No!"_ the other man bellowed and even the great detective faltered. "_You are not telling me I don't understand how it feels when you kill someone you're not meant to_!"

Aware of his friend's 'bad days' in Afghanistan, the detective nodded in acceptance. "Of course not. I'm sorry…"

"It's fine…" John exhaled deeply and calmed himself down. He glanced over at his friend and shifted from one foot to the other. "Let's… let's pretend for one minute you believe my deductions… okay? Just… You found out about Belfast before tonight, didn't you? Did you believe she was working with Moriarty first time Mycroft told you? Or did that change after you saw the video?"

Sherlock shook his head and replied honestly, "No. I didn't think so _before_."

"Okay..." the blond man nodded and pondered how to get his friend to change his mind on the subject, or at least help shed some light on the situation. "We went to see Hazaar so that he could kill Moriarty and end the game before he could get to you. Moriarty had offered the man more money to take us out, though. Irene just wanted this to be over… She went behind your back because she knew you would have stopped her-"

"Obviously! _I _knew the man wasn't reliable!"

John ignored his friend and pushed on. "-_Not_ because she wanted to double-cross you. You used to believe in her…"

Sherlock frowned. "I never _trusted_ her, John."

The other man frowned right back and commented, "But _yo__u did_ trust her, Sherlock."

A tense silence fell over the room and John took the moment to insert the CD into his laptop. "I'm asking you to trust _me _now, Sherlock… Can you do that? Trust in my instincts just this once? I think you're hurt, and I think you're letting that emotion prevent you from seeing the truth. So… _Please_. I think there's something off about the recording. But I can't figure it out for myself. I don't have your _keen senses_."

The detective shrugged his eyebrows but remained far away from the desk. "Though a compliment is always appreciated… not now, John. _Not ever_."

John pretended he hadn't heard as he played the video on the screen. He fast-forwarded the video until the scantily clad images of Moriarty and Irene appeared on the screen. He just needed the brilliant man to see what was wrong in order for him to believe. With Sherlock, words and feelings weren't enough, he needed hard facts and he needed to find them himself.

"Now, look here. Oh, would you just come over here? I don't know what's wrong. Maybe it's not really her? Well, we see her face, so we know it is… Is the date off? Do you know what she was doing five weeks from yesterday?"

"Obviously, she did _him_." Sherlock said sarcastically and reluctantly joined his friend by the laptop. "_That_ is what she does, John, that right there. Deception and misbehaving with sex as her weapon of choice."

John shook his head and glared up at the man. "I get that she's a very clever woman who knows how to play people, but… I don't think you actually realize the changes I've seen in both of you while she's been living with us. You've never experienced someone who cares and does everything for you… To protect you. You were so stubborn when it came to your relationship, so you didn't see it, but you had… _have_ something. I know it's hard to understand right now, but… It's _you _who's seeing but not observing this time. Disregard your heart and pain and just… _observe_. Be the brilliant man I know you are and look for the clues… If only to prove me wrong."

Sherlock inhaled deeply and for some reason, the words seemed to hit home in the man's heart. Without further objection, the dark-haired man leaned down and gazed at the video with his usual detective eyes. His eyes flashed across the scene and it took only a few seconds before he backed up once more. John hated the impassive look on his friend's face, because he couldn't read it. The doctor lowered his gaze and sighed as he realized it was useless now, he'd never make his friend believe.

The detective shut his eyes tight and let memories of the past months flicker through his mind.

"_You might not see the humor in this, but I do. I no longer work for him, but with you - and still you seem to believe it's an advantage for him instead of using it as one for yourself. He knew you would do this, knew you would blame me. Did you ever consider that?"_

"_Moriarty isn't a philanthropist. He doesn't let people live. Besides, she's merely a pawn. It's you he wants."_

_"He believes the devil is in his details. Because of his changeable nature he never concocts a plan without back-up. He rarely loses because he keeps the options open. That part of him, however, makes it almost impossible to get all details correct. If you will find a flaw in anything down the road, Sherlock, it will be in the details."_

"_It was my ex-husband… but first it was the terrorists in Karachi before you arrived. They tortured me a long time to prepare me for death and my husband later punished me for… misbehaving."_

_"Do us all a favor and accept your defeat, Mr Holmes. When I leave, move on. Don't face Moriarty, unless you have a death wish. You're already defeated, you won't win."_

"She was right, he did miss a detail… _It is_ fake," Sherlock's voice was full of disbelief and a small wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows as he considered the possibilities. "It's dated five weeks ago..."

"Yes…? The dates are right there at the bottom corner. You know what's wrong, don't you?"

The detective nodded once and John saw the fire return to the man's pale eyes. "I do."

"And?"

"_And_ Irene lied to me just now."

John felt relief wash over him. He had done right to trust his own gut this time, then, and not be swept away in the emotional roller coaster of Sherlock and Irene. "Oh. So she hasn't been deceiving us all along?"

"No. Well, maybe not," the detective consented and then proceeded to point out his deductions on the screen. "You see here, Moriarty got too excited when he did this tape. He forgot a small detail. See her back here? It's flawless. In real life; her back has several scars that she received from the terrorists in Pakistan."

"So it couldn't have been recorded five weeks ago…" the blond man swiftly caught on to what his friend had deduced. "Moriarty has the means. He could easily have bribed someone to mash two videos together, make it look real. I admit, it takes a lot of time and effort, but in the end he just really needed someone to dress up like Irene and follow his lead. Then a little bit of professional retouching and… _voila_."

Sherlock nodded down at his friend and exhaled as one revelation after another hit him. The thoughts streamed into his head as all the facts changed once more. John was right. Irene hadn't been conducting the game, but the criminal had used her as one of his pawns to get to his main target. Of course it made sense, the mad criminal would go to any lengths to destroy his nemesis. The detective exhaled as he realized he had allowed himself to be blinded by his own heart. It pained him as he considered the lies Irene had been forced to tell and the cruel things he had said in return.

"Thank you, John," the taller man said and pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

"Sherlock…" The doctor began slowly and grimaced as if the question on the tip of his tongue physically hurt him as well as mentally. "If Moriarty forced Irene to lie to you doesn't that mean…?"

"Yes." the other man replied shortly as he dialed her number and pressed the phone to his ear. He had to get a hold of her before Moriarty did, if he would have any chance of protecting her now. With her final words, Irene had begged him to walk away from the reminder of the game, but he was well aware the criminal mastermind would never let him. A few seconds later, he was referred to her voice-mail and froze at the unexpected voice that greeted him.

It was Moriarty's recorded voice that now met his ear. The detective froze and listened intently at the instructions that were given to him. "You have reached Irene Adler's phone. I'm afraid she's in no stage to take your call... If you ever want to see her alive again, I suggest you hurry to our favorite roof top. _Alea iacta est_, Sherlock. Don't keep me waiting..."

Sherlock hung up and turned to face his friend by the desk. He was too late, then. He had been a fool to spend so much energy and time trusting in the criminal's decoy that he had put the woman's life at risk. Even though he could basically feel John's anxiousness, the detective allowed himself a moment to just breath before explaining, "Moriarty has her on the roof of Barts."

"Let's go!" the shorter man flew into action and the two men rushed down the stairs without further ado. Both knew there was no time to waste when it came to Moriarty's games.

As Sherlock threw on his coat, Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway to her flat. "Sherlock? John? What's the rush?"

"No time to explain, Mrs Hudson," the man said as he put on his scarf and John opened the door. As the doctor stepped outside, the landlady took a hesitant step towards the detective.

"I heard you and Irene fought earlier…" she said gently and loud enough so that only the detective could hear.

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson. I'm going to set things straight," Sherlock assured and patted her shoulder.

The elderly woman seemed relieved. "Oh, good. I do hate to see you two mad at each other. You're such a lovely couple."

The tall man opened his mouth to comment but was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires reaching his ears.

He glanced sideways towards the street and saw a white van hastily drive up and stop by the sidewalk next to John. While the side door of the van opened and two men jumped out and grabbed hold of John, Sherlock saw a machine gun extend out the passenger window aimed at him and Mrs Hudson.

The detective hurriedly grabbed hold of the elderly woman and threw them both onto the ground as the machine gun fired a round at the open doorway. He heard Mrs Hudson whimper in fright beneath him and John's shouts of struggle outside. Suddenly the tires screeched once more and everything was silent in the street.

The detective didn't hesitate a heartbeat as he jumped up from the floor and ran out the door. He ran into the empty street and looked up and down the road for any sign of his friend. He had just enough time to see the van cut a corner further up the road and vanish from his sight in the cold, bitter evening. He frantically glanced about him for help or for a black cab, but found neither.

Sherlock Holmes stood helplessly in the middle of the street as the rest of the world fell apart around him.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	19. A Gentlemen's disagreement

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>19. A Gentlemen's disagreement<strong>

"Ah, Sherlock!" Moriarty greeted with much enthusiasm and warmth. "You came! I was beginning to fear you wouldn't…"

The detective closed the door behind him and walked out onto the rooftop. A cold wind passed him as he shrugged his flowing coat closer to his tall, lean shape. Seeing his nemesis stand so close to the ledge now brought back memories of the past for Sherlock. The mental image of Moriarty putting a gun in his mouth played over and over in his head as Sherlock slowly moved towards his destiny. His own leap off the roof as well as John's terrified shouts also reminded him of a time he rather wished not to remember. If all went according to plan, their rendez-vouz on the roof would end differently this time.

"Sorry for my appearance…" Moriarty apologized as the other man remained silent, and indicated three, short scratchmarks on his right cheek. They seemed to be the only flaws on his otherwise flawless facade, and thus like a thorn in the criminal's eyes. "I would have been impeccable, as usual, if your girlfriend hadn't lost her temper."

Sherlock's shoes clicked against the ground as he dully commented, "You probably deserved it."

"I did, Sherlock. _I did_…" his voice was dark and tantalizing. The criminal seemed rather proud of his accomplishments, as it was, and the detective rather dreaded the reason why.

After the events right outside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had momentarily been dazed and hadn't known how to proceed. That had passed swiftly, though, as he had recalled the only clue he had received; the voice message on Irene's phone which had hinted of a meeting upon the hospital roof. Half an hour after John's abduction, the man was now grateful the mad enemy hadn't left that recording to lead him on a wild goose chase.

Though the tall man had not yet fully collect his scattered thoughts, his mind ran almost flawlessly. Anxiety pumped in his weakened heart, mixed with hatred directed at the criminal mastermind - but his mind palace remained balanced and high functioning.

The detective had already made a deal with himself not to leave this rooftop without securing the safety for both John and Irene. After all the wrongs he had done so far, that was the least he could do for them. It was time to ignore his heart - as he had always feared, it had led him mightily astray thus far - and let his intellect lead him to victory.

"Where are they?" the detective managed in a low, demanding voice as he stopped a few feet from the other coat clad man and the ledge.

Moriarty grimaced and a look of disappointment flashed in his dark eyes. "Now, now… Is that how we great our enemies? Calm, Sherlock. I thought we could spend some time alone. We never do anymore…"

The teasing note to Jim's voice nearly sent Sherlock tumbling into a blind fury. He wanted nothing more than to wring the man's neck but pushed his hands deep into his pockets to withstand all impulses. He had to remain impassive if he was to get any information out of his enemy tonight, and save his friend and lover.

"I'm not here to play," Sherlock spoke in a determined voice.

Moriarty's disappointed look ten-folded as he continued to play with his nemesis, much as a cat plays with its food. "Oh, come now. Everything I've done.. It's how I show my love for you, Sherlock..."

"What do you want from me?" the taller man growled.

"Hm?"

"_What do I have to do for you to free them?"_ Sherlock asked and knew in that moment he was prepared to give Moriarty anything to settle this once and for all.

"Oh! _That_," The criminal breathed and pretended to consider the question in great depth. "You see, we've done this before. And I haven't succeeded in wounding you permanently yet. So, I think… _this time_, I'm playing by other rules. I don't want you to go jump off a roof or anything. There's _nothing_ you can do…"

Sherlock stepped closer into Jim's personal space and glared down at him with relentless eyes. "Then tell me about the game."

"Patience, dear," Moriarty patted the detective's shoulder. "All in good time…"

"If you're not here to tell me of the game… why are you here?" Sherlock questioned and read the dark eyes before him. "You want to see something… You want to know something. Something about _me._"

"I do… You have figured it out already, haven't you?" the criminal asked and seemed rejected for a second as he awaited the response.

The consultant detective didn't need to be told just what the mad man was insinuating. He managed a slight, aloof smirk at the corner of his lips. "What? That you used Irene as a pawn in your ingenious plan to get to me and that she was never truly evil? _Please_. Don't mock me."

Moriarty sighed deeply as if this realization wasn't a pleasant one and he took a few steps around Sherlock. "Oh dear, oh dear…"

The detective followed the criminal's movement from the corner of his eyes and frowned at the strangeness of the situation. "What have you done to her?"

"Oh dear," Moriarty repeated and grimaced as if having been caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar. He slowly turned back to Sherlock and his wicked eyes sparkled in the evening. "This is rather awkward... I thought you dismissing her meant that we were done with her… so I disposed of Ms Adler. She's _dead_, Sherlock."

The detective felt his throat dry up like a desert and words momentarily failed him. He knew all his thoughts vanished in a blinding flash of shock and he felt incapable of forming new ones. Even breathing grew harder as the simple word filled his mind palace_. Dead. Not alive. Killed. Murdered. Lies? Gone... Dead. _

The devilish grin spread across Moriarty's lips as he saw the slight shift in the other's face. "Something the matter?"

Sherlock wet his lips. "You're lying. Your message on her phone-"

"I know…" the man shrugged and did a flawless impression of a remorseful man. "Suppose I just got carried away. That reminds me, there's one more thing…!"

The sleek criminal dug through his pockets and pulled a small object from it. He threw it through the air and Sherlock deftly caught it in one hand. "I thought you'd might want it back… Since Ms Adler won't be needing it anymore."

Sherlock's eyes were transfixed on the golden chain in his hand. It was the necklace he had given to _The woman_. He slowly turned the small spy glass – there was a droplet of glaring blood on the glass - around in his palm as he focused on not letting any of his emotions shine through his impassiveness. He could feel Moriarty's gaze reading every single move and emotion that flickered across his features.

"Well… It's time I go. See how my _guest_ is feeling. Don't try and follow me, Sherlock. I'll have John killed, too. As for the game… I'll be in touch with directions."

Moriarty winked up at the detective before he stepped around him and over towards the door. The good man felt opportunity slip through his fingers like water, and panic rose up in his chest.

"_Wait_!" He ordered and turned around to face the man who had his hand on the door handle already. "Do you want to settle this once and for all? I'll give you your final game _right now_."

The man with the slicked back hair slowly turned. The criminal squinted his eyes and shook his head slowly. "…_Tempting_. But I'd rather stick to the game plan, if that's alright with you. I went through the trouble of kidnapping John from you, after all… _Again_. I don't want that to have been for nothing for poor Watson. You don't get to finish this now. _Sorry_!"

Sherlock shrugged as if this meant little to him. "That's fine. No matter. I'll end you soon enough."

Moriarty's crooked grin was the last he saw as the mad man swung about and opened the door. As he moved inside, his tantalizing, sing-song voice echoed in the deep dark. "_No, you won't_!"

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice reached the detective's ears as he ascended the stairs to his flat two steps at a time. He didn't much wish to see the elder woman at the moment, but rather be left alone to focus all his brilliance into figuring out how to beat Moriarty at the final game that lay ahead. It didn't help that he felt his cell phone vibrate frantically in his pocket: Mary had evidently heard the news.<p>

As the man entered the living room, he closed his eyes tight and tried to ignore the sound of Mrs Hudson's feet on the steps.

"You didn't find them…" her low voice was sad as she realized he had returned home alone. Sherlock exhaled deeply but kept his back to his elderly land lady. He had no wish to see her disappoint and fear. "I have every confidence you will, deary."

"I have every confidence, too. _If I'm not distracted_, I'll find them sooner."

"Of course…" the lady's voice was understanding and Sherlock heard her feet move back towards the stairs without any further objection.

The stairs creaked painfully as she descended and then the world around him was silent once more. He re-focused his mind on what had to be done, and be done quickly. He gazed down at the bloodstained necklace in his palm and couldn't prevent his emotional frown.

This was not the first time these last couple of days that Sherlock's existence had been turned on its head. All he had thought he knew of his own cold, balanced mind had already been shattered into the eastern wind. His mind had proven it could be affected by his heart, just like ordinary people's hearts.

He now knew that letting people into his heart, such as John and Irene, had opened up a distracting venue to his otherwise trained and organized mind palace. Still, though the thought hurt his pride to admit, he was aware he would never wish either of them to leave. Even less he wished them dead, despite what flaws or problems they caused on his brilliance.

If Moriarty truly had killed the woman, there would have to be time for mourning later. Having made up his mind, the man switched off his emotions and pocketed the necklace, out of sight and out of mind. If he succumbed to those dark thoughts now, he wouldn't think clear enough to save his best friend from meeting the same cruel fate.

The detective loathed this particular game more than all others, for Moriarty was taking his time to mentally torture Sherlock now. Patience had never been one of the dark-haired man's strong sides (though he had many other) and the criminal was taking great advantage of this knowledge. It was as if he heard every slow tick of the clocks in the entire flat haunt him minute by minute.

With a desperate growl, the man sank into his armchair and closed his eyes tight. He told his mind to leave everything else behind as he stepped into his mind palace and focused on the criminal mastermind and the game plan that undoubtedly waited ahead.

"The devil is is in the details…" Sherlock muttered to himself as he sank further and further into his sanctuary.

* * *

><p>By the following evening, Sherlock's restlessness had him basically climbing the walls from a lack of instructions. It was a known fact that time was of the essence in 9 out of 10 cases, and so the more time Moriarty had to prepare, the less time the detective would have to save his friend.<p>

In John's old armchair, Mary sat and her pale eyes danced with worry from the fireplace beside her as she stared deep into the flames. One of her hands caressed the growing bulge on her stomach and Sherlock knew there was nothing he could say to help ease her mind. He'd tried, but that had only ended with the fair woman bursting into tears. _Hormones_.

Sherlock watched the setting sun outside while one of his feet impatiently stomped the ground. A soft drizzle caressed his window and made the outside world appear like a grey kaleidoscope.

_Pling_.

The man flew to his phone and once and heard Mary's sharp intake of breath behind him as he opened the new text eagerly.

"I've made the basement more cozy for us. Won't you join us? – Jim."

"The game is on, Mary," he explained shortly and whirled around as he buttoned his dress jacket. Before he could move past her, the woman rose from her seat with impressive agility for her current size and held up her trembling hands.

"_Please_, let me come with you. I want to help."

"John would never forgive me if I brought his pregnant wife to the scene of a mad criminal's final game in which he is targeted as a possible victim," Sherlock frowned. "... _I_ would never forgive myself, either. Now, if you excuse me... This is wasting time."

With those words he gently patted her shoulder before he pushed bast and rushed from Baker Street.

* * *

><p>As the detective returned to the peculiar cellar for the third time in just a couple of months, he wondered what would meet him behind the door this time. It was almost like a lottery not even he could foresee: always a new, horrifying shock that awaited in the mysterious shadows.<p>

He held his breath as he turned the handle and entered the battle field.

As he stepped inside, he quickly took in the changes to the area. This time, the concrete basement was lit up by cold lamps along the brick walls. Before he walked further into the room, his hand checked in his coat pocket for his gun..

At the very center of the cellar stood Moriarty, dressed as always in a timeless suit, hair sleeked back and a smug smirk upon his face. On either side of the criminal mastermind hung two huge, black curtains and Sherlock eyed them suspiciously. He couldn't see what they hid, but figured he would find out soon enough.

"That's close enough," the mad man spoke and the detective followed order without hesitation. As he halted, he turned from the coming surprise to greet his opponent, who simply rocked back and forth on his feet in barely concealed joy.

"I'm so glad you came, Sherlock."

"I couldn't keep you waiting."

"Now, first things first…" the criminal began and tilted his head to the right. "I did promise I'd find you a new nickname, since the old one was rendered obsolete... _Oh_! You wouldn't happen to have a special name for me, would you?"

The criminal's childlike enthusiasm didn't fool Sherlock who raised his chin and tightly grinned back. "_The sore loser_."

Moriarty grimaced and put a hand to his heart as if the suggestion wounded him. He sniffled once and then commented, "Ouch... That hurts, Sherlock. And here I thought _I_ was the evil one."

The detective shrugged his eyebrows. "What's my new name then?"

"I'm hoping that by the end of the night, I can just call you _dead_," Jim's eyes sparkled in a dark shade of oceans deep as his smirk widened.

"To the point but not very inventive," Sherlock chastised.

"...I know. Do you know how hard it is to think up new nicknames for people when under a lot of stress?" Moriarty sighed and a cloud passed his features before disappearing in a flash. In its stead shone an undeniable enthusiasm for what was to come next. "Shall we begin? You'll _love_ this game, Sherlock."

"I never love your games, Jim."

Moriarty's slowly nodded. "Yeah,_ you do_, Sherlock. Even if you won't admit it. Now listen carefully: '_Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice'.._."

The taller man frowned as he easily recognized the poem. "Robert Frost."

"Yes. I couldn't personally choose which method I preferred, so I decided on both! _'From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire_'," as he spoke he moved closer to the curtain on his right and Sherlock now glanced towards it as the man and tugged on the fabric. The vast curtain fell dramatically to the ground and as it revealed what hid behind, the detective faltered.

"_John_!" he gasped in fright as he saw his dearest friend upon a small pedestal with what appeared to be an intricate bomb stuck to his chest. A chain went from the bomb down to the stone pedestal, keeping the doctor firmly in place. Sherlock's eyes swiftly looked his friend over. The short man stood on wobbly legs and a piece of silver tape was stuck over his mouth, but there was clarity in his wide, frightened eyes that met the detective's now. John was fine. Sherlock nodded once to reassure him all would be well soon enough.

The detective understood Moriarty's challenge immediately. If he didn't stop the bomb, the former army doctor would be blown up and most likely everyone else in the room. Once more, Moriarty's love to come full circle made itself aware as it was a clear echo of what had transpired in the swimming hall that first time of their acquaintance.

"Keep your eyes on me, John!" the curly-haired man said loudly as he noticed his friend's gaze drift down to the bomb on his chest.

The criminal's fury made its first entrance of the night as he shouted so loud the words echoed in the deep recesses of the basement, "_Sch_! It's rude to interrupt, Sherlock! I'm not done yet!" he calmed as swiftly as he had flared, and continued as if nothing had ever been amiss with the world, "…'_But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate_…"

Sherlock frowned as the man walked over to the second curtain and yanked on it, too. As it fell to the ground, a glass tank was revealed, reminiscent of a magician's glass box, where it stood about 7 feet tall before him now. In the box, sat a clearly disoriented and drugged woman who blinked up at the detective. As the fog in her pale eyes cleared slowly but surely, they shone up at the man with great remorse and ache.

"… '_to say that for destruction ice is also great, and would suffice'._"

The detective's gaze met the woman's and he managed a low, "...Irene."

"Yes," Moriarty gazed down at the brunette in the box. He tapped the solid glass a couple of times as if she was a monkey at a zoo and not a human being in mortal peril. "I didn't kill her… Though I did relish in seeing you believe I had. And, well… the night's not over yet. In fact, the fun is just about to begin."

Sherlock focused on breathing and glanced from John to Irene. He wanted nothing more than to pull out his gun and just shoot Moriarty, but knew the criminal came prepared this night. Not only did he most likely have his henchmen ready already, but the trigger in John's bomb would most likely go off before the detective could pull the trigger. The only choice to save his friends, would be to play along.

"What do you think of my game, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked as he backed up slowly, but still kept the upper hand and control in the palm of his maniacal hand. The criminal glanced from John to Irene and then smirked over at his nemesis. It was evident he thought he had already won. "Before we begin, let me explain the rules…"

"Rules?" the detective mocked. "You spoil me, Jim."

"You'll have five minutes in total to save them: half the time for one and half for the other. You must work one trap at a time and know that they are wired together. Meaning when you're halfway through - and thus also at the end of your first attempt- " Moriarty began and glanced up at his nemesis. Sherlock inclined his head to acknowledge he was still keeping up with the information.

"Go on."

"-the other trap will automatically be set off. You choose which order they'll die. …Oh, I'm sorry. I mean; which order you'll _attempt_ to save them. As soon as you start a song will begin to keep the time. If you haven't saved them by the end of it… they'll both be dead. In fact, if you don't run and leave them to their faiths within five minutes: you'll be dead, too. ... I'm sure you've already done the calculations. There's most likely only time to save _one _of them. I know, I know... It's a nail-biter, but it's also a crowd pleaser! Do you understand my rules? Then let's play!"

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	20. The end crowns the work

_A/N:And so it comes to the end… After this, I fear only one chapter remains. _

_I used a lot of musical impressions to find the right mood to write the different parts. If you haven't youtubed Sherlock, Irene and Sentiment, you should go do that. There is this beautiful video of the couple to the song of the Dead Island Trailer Music which hits home every time. Read this first and then yt it._

_The song I've included in this chapter hopefully helps give a sense of the pace of the piece. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20: The end crowns the work<strong>

Sherlock's dark gaze wandered from John's form to _The woman _in her glass cell.

It was unusual and unsettling to see her as the captured prey instead of the victorious predator. The remorse still shone in her wide, pale eyes, asking him for forgiveness. Speaking without words, the man tried to make her see that there was nothing to forgive. Gratefulness flashed through her eyes and she managed a slight smile as she moved to stand up.

The detective could see the daze clear more and more in her features, and with it came a dark realization. As she stood on her feet, her piercing gaze told him everything he needed to know. The four walls of the glass tank were bullet-proof, and if Sherlock attempted to save her life first, it could mean less time to stop the bomb attached to John's chest from exploding. If it went off, they'd all be dead. Also, she was plainly aware there was nothing that would prevent the brilliant man from turning to his best friend first. Irene smiled in encouragement and he managed a battle-worn grimace in return.

Sherlock then turned his attention to his friend's unfortunate trap. The blond doctor had seen the unspoken conversation between his friends and distractedly shook his head in the detective's direction. Sherlock ignored the look in those frightened eyes, inhaled deeply and stepped towards the first hurdle.

He hadn't even taken three steps towards the small platform when a cheerful tune began somewhere in the background and filled the basement. The detective rolled his eyes at Moriarty's adolescent humor as he recognized the song that echoed loudly between the cellar walls. _Tragedy_ by Bee Gees. Not exactly music to die to, perhaps, but certainly a sick joke on the others' behalf.

He filtered out the song as he rushed up onto the platform and stood before John. He swiped the duct tape away from the man's mouth and met his friend's gaze to make sure everything was still alright. John's expression was tense but he managed a sharp nod in unspoken reply. Now that he had come this close, Sherlock noticed how his friend's fingers and knees trembled in fright. The detective wished he could tell his friend all would be well, but the time frame had him focused on his task instead. It was, after all, better to speak through action instead of mere words.

"Remember, Sherlock: _Five minutes_!" Moriarty called as he lurked in the shadows between the two traps.

_Here I lie, in a lost and lonely part of town._

John chuckled humorlessly. "_Bee Gees_. Of course. I'm going to die to the Bee Gees. You know, you'd think I'd be used to the unusual… but I never thought I'd die to the Bee Gees, Sherlock."

The detective placed his hands on either of his friend's cheeks and shook him slightly to make him refocus. "You're _not _going to die, John, do you hear me?"

"You always figure you'll grow old and die of age. Wife by my side, kids… maybe even grandchildren. Oh, God, Sherlock! What about Mary... and the _baby_?"

_Held in time, in a world of tears I slowly drown._

"You'll see them again. I _promise_ you, do you hear?" Sherlock leaned down and gazed at the bomb attached to the doctor's chest. It was attached by thin, metal chains and intricate knots, and he grimaced in annoyance. This wasn't a bomb he would be able to remove like the bomb jacket, this time he'd have to stop it manually. At the center of the doctor's chest sat a metal shield with a digital display and a small keyboard below. "Help me think, John!"

The blond man drew a shuddering breath, "W-what do you need? Have you found the wires?"

_Going home, I just can't take it all alone._

Sherlock inspected the difficulty before him. Of course Moriarty would plant a mental obstacle before a physical one. "They're covered behind a digital lock."

"Oh_, son of a_-" John began furiously and closed his eyes tight. He clenched his hands into tight fists and tried to calm himself down, though it proved harder than he wanted to admit.

"I know, I'm not playing fair!" Moriarty cooed.

_I really should be holding you, holding you, lo-oving you, lo-oving yoooooooou!_

Sherlock pretended to ignore the criminal as he gazed up at his friend once more. "I need a four letter word to unlock it… How much time do I have?"

John listened and shrugged, "He's just reaching the first chorus, I'd say a minute and a half before the song is halfway done. But I don't know!"

_Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy._

The detective's mind raced a mile a minute as he attempted different possibilities for the correct password. With Moriarty's mind as the inventor of this code, it could be any sick, twisted thing they had encountered in the past. It was still, however, constructed for him to figure out, obviously.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

"Trouble, dear?" the sneaky criminal asked from somewhere behind the detective's shoulders. "It's a tricky one but I can give you a hint. The code is the reason we've come to this point today, though I doubt you see it that way…"

John sneered like a cornered animal and glared at Moriarty before he confidently turned his eyes back to his best friend. "I trust you, Sherlock. You can figure it out. You always do."

"Irene, suggestions!" the detective ordered without raising his gaze.

"I... I don't know!" her hesitant voice barely rose above the chorus. "_Tragedy_. Eh, s-song, pain, gain. _Game_. Whatever it is, it's clearly personal. Think with your heart."

_With no one to love you, you're going nowhere._

Though the pressure of the situation snuck into his lungs and chest, Sherlock kept his head cool. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how the odd quirks of Moriarty's mind worked. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he attempted to solve the mystery.

_Game... Mind... John... Fini... Jim M…_

_Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy._

As he typed in one wrong answer after another, Sherlock felt his frustration grow strong within his chest. The impulse to wring Moriarty's neck tenfolded with each wrong attempt. A second after having typed in his fifth wrong answer, an unexpected noise interrupted the high pitched singing. It sounded like an engine slowly humming to life and the sound came from somewhere behind him.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

Both Sherlock and John looked over at Irene's cage as she yelped and looked down at something at the bottom.

"What's going on?" the blond man hollered and gazed at the smirking Moriarty before turning back to the woman. Whatever was coming, it would be bad, and the clock was steadily ticking down to their demise.

_With no one beside you, you're going nowhere._

Sherlock squinted his eyes and glanced down at the space around the woman's feet. _Water_. The tank was swiftly filling up with water and suddenly it all made sense to the detective's mind. Moriarty had trapped her in a mysterious, body-sized aquarium designed to be her final resting place. The mad man meant to literally quench the fires which burned so strong within her.

"It's _freezing_!" the woman gasped and moved towards the glass, as if searching for someplace to hide from the flowing liquid.

Moriarty rolled his eyes as he walked over to her cage. "_Duh.._. That was rather the point of the poem, my dear. _Fire and ice_."

"Hey! That's cheating!" John hollered furiously. "We can't have heard half of the song yet!"

"That would depend on the appendix to my rules, wouldn't it?" the criminal questioned as he circled the game field. "Ms Adler's watery grave takes about a minute to fill, while you will blow up in considerably less time, Mr Watson. Though… did I forget to mention that five wrong guesses sets her trap off earlier?"

"You said I'd have more time!" Sherlock's anxious gaze was on Irene who was already trapped hip-high in water. He noticed her lower lip was quivering from the cold, but other than that she seemed the epitome of calm. Her palm pressed against the glass as she met his gaze with courage and bravado.

"Well, you won't. So you'd better make the most of the time you've been given. By my calculation, you have about a minute left to save your precious John. But perhaps, you'd like to vent some more frustration first?"

_Night and day, there's a burning down inside of me._

The detective threw a seething glare in the mad man's direction before hurriedly turning back to the task at hand. If he could solve the code, perhaps he could stop this before Irene was completely beneath the surface. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to remember everything about his relationship with Moriarty that could be considered personal. What could possibly be the cause for them being there today? The end which the man wanted to achieve was obvious. That still gave him very few ideas to figure out this mental puzzle.

_Clue… Fire... Dead… Bomb… Fall... Kill… King_...

His attempts kept being erroneous and he grimaced in anger as the _Error_-sign flashed on the screen over and over. The song in the background was rising towards the second chorus and did little to help Sherlock's furious mind. If Moriarty had chosen the song to drive him insane, he had chosen wisely.

_Burning love, with a yearning that won't let me be._

"_Sherlock_," Irene's strained voice reached his ears and he glanced back at her. The slim woman floated in the water close to the top of the water-filled tank. She was struggling to get oxygen in the small air pocket that remained and her eyes met his with a dark sparkle to them. "Impress a girl…"

As she finished her sentence, the tank filled to the very brim and submerged _The woman_ entirely beneath the water. John released a despaired cry as Sherlock felt his own heart come to a screeching halt. As her oxygen seized, so it seemed his own supply vanished and left his struggling to focus. He watched as Irene floated attempted to kick the walls to break free.

"_Stop!_" the man shouted, hoping she would hear him through the walls and the water. Her angry movements seized as she met his eyes once more. Though he saw defeat in her eyes, he begged her with his gaze not to give in just yet. He needed her to preserve her energy now. "_Please_, Irene."

_Down I go, and I just can't take it all alone._

The dark-haired woman put one of her slender palms against the glass. There was evident panic in her gaze, but she had calmed for him.

Sherlock turned back to the bomb and the code. _One thing at a time_, he reminded himself. He had to find a way to stop the bomb before the time was up and all of them would be blown to dust. _Then_ he'd worry about his woman.

John's quaking voice spoke in a low but frantic voice, "_Sherlock_!"

"_WHAT_?" the detective was losing his patience.

"What if the Bee Gees is the answer? _Think about it_."

"You're going into shock- _No_, you're right. A brilliant conductor as always! _When the feeling's gone and you can't go on_. Burn my heart out. _Full circle. The reason!_ Moriarty's attempts to destroy me have been focused on using my biggest disadvantage; my heart, so…"

_I really should be holding you, holding you, lo-oving you, lo-oving yooooou!_

Sherlock swiftly typed in what he hoped would be his final attempt. _Love_.

A green light flashed on the display and there was a low click as the lock opened. The detective hastily threw the piece of metal aside as he exposed the plentiful amounts of wires below. A small, red clock showed him he was swiftly running out of time. He finally found the blue wire he was looking for and tugged on it. The red clock before his eyes stopped ticking down.

_Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy._

As John exhaled in relief, the detective withdrew the gun from his pocket. Even as his friend attempted to jump back, he fired a single shot at the point on the platform where the chain was attached. Sherlock saw the bullet hit its mark as the chain loosened and John fell backwards. The detective didn't stop as he swirled around to face his next hurdle.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

From the corner of his eyes he noticed Moriarty slip into the shadows of the room as a cowardly lion prepared for the worst. Sherlock rushed over towards the water tank and gazed at the woman within it's watery hold. Her eyes were closed and her body simply floated aimlessly in the tank. There was no response as he called out her name and he feared the worst.

_With no one to love you, you're going nowhere._

Without hesitation, Sherlock did the calculations in his head as to the weaker points of the glass, backed up and aimed at those areas.

_Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy._

He fired one bullet and it lodged itself in the glass, making a small, but noticeable crack in the material.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

The detective continued like this as he rushed from side to side until he had emptied his gun on all four glass walls, creating visible cracks all around the tank.

_With no one beside you, you're going nowhere._

He threw his gun aside, shrugged out of his coat and ran a couple of steps back. He hoped it would be enough. If it wasn't, he'd have little to no time to think of another plan.

He ran straight towards the cage and in the last second, threw himself at the weakest point of the glass. Sherlock bounced back. He cursed loudly and heard Moriarty's menacing laughter echo in the dark.

The detective squinted at the tank, though he hadn't managed to break the glass, the crack in the side that faced him had grown considerably after his leap towards it. Sherlock ran back and took aim once more. This time he ran faster and threw himself harder at the glass, with his elbows up for protection.

This time, the glass did break due to the cracks it had received as well as Sherlock's weight.

_Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy._

The man felt the glass break and ice cold water slammed against his shocked body. Though his eyes were closed tight he still felt the woman's body against his own as they fell to the cold, concrete floor with shards of glass all around them. Despite the wind having been knocked out of him, the adrenaline kept Sherlock running as he sat and gazed down at the drowned woman on the ground.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

Irene's skin and lips were pale to the point of translucent and her eyes still remained shut. To Sherlock, the woman seemed simply to be resting, as if lying safe in his bed at Baker Street, instead of on the concrete floor before him.

_With no one to love you, you're going nowhere._

The man's gaze wandered down to her chest, expecting to see it rise and fall with her every breath.

_Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy._

When it didn't, Sherlock jumped into action once more. He shuffled closer, crossed his hands and put them over her heart as he started to give her chest compressions.

John suddenly appeared in his peripheral line of vision and pushed the detective out of the way with a strength Sherlock wasn't aware his friend possessed. The blond man had managed to break free from the bomb and now sat safe and well between Sherlock and Irene's body.

_When the morning cries and your heart just dies, it's hard to bear._

"_I'm_ the doctor!" he shouted and it was plain he had moved out of his shocked state of mind, and he wasn't about to move from his new position. "I'll help her, Moriarty's yours!"

_With no one beside you, you're going nowhere._

Without further ado, John restarted the compressions on Irene's chest and there was no room for debate. Sherlock hesitated a beat before he jumped from the ground in search of his coat and the criminal master mind. His friend had been right. It was time this ended, once and for all. The detective's eyes traveled across the enclosed space in search of his enemy and found Moriarty in the far end corner by a hidden back door to the basement.

Sherlock picked up his coat where he had tossed it aside and shrugged it on as he walked closer. For the first time that night, it seemed the consultant criminal was the trapped one.

_(Aaah!) Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy._

"Problem, Jim?" the curly-haired man asked and circled his enemy to make sure his focus remained on the detective and not on his friends.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

Moriarty's hand was on the door knob and his back to the detective as he replied, "I had hoped to take this finale to another venue…"

_With no one to love you, you're going nowhere._

"Yes…" Sherlock nodded and stopped a few meters behind Moriarty. "Did I forget to tell you I had prevented _Plan B_? I made sure you wouldn't be able to escape this time, Jim. And don't bother trying to contact your henchmen. Inspector Lestrade seemed quite eager to help with those. See, I know how your mind works... We're the same, remember?"

_Tragedy, when you lose control and you got no soul, it's tragedy._

Jim inhaled deeply and then swirled around to face his nemesis seemingly without a care in the world on his impassive face. He brushed off his jacket from imaginary dust and shrugged his eyebrows. "Escape? No one's trying to escape, Sherlock. You know what kills me though? I _nearly_ had you this time. No, _I did have you_ _right where I_ _wanted you_... I made you show your heart, I made you _weak_."

_When the morning cries and your heart just dies, it's hard to bear._

"No, Jim," Sherlock argued. "I was never weak. I have plenty of strengths, if you're referring to those."

_With no one beside you, you're going nowhere._

Moriarty chuckled heartlessly. "Either way… This is the _final_ game. And your _strengths_ won't save your heart this time. From the looks of it, I won after all." In a fluid motion, the suit clad man withdrew a small gun from his pocket and aimed it straight at the other man's heart. The detective's face faltered as he took a step back. "A bit more blunt than I had planned it, I admit… When you see Ms Adler in hell will you give my love to her?"

_Tragedy, when the feeling's gone and you can't go on, it's tragedy._

Without further ado, Moriarty pulled the trigger.

"_Sherlock!_" John's pained shout echoed in the room as the coat-clad man fell heavily to the ground.

_When the morning cries and you don't know why, it's hard to bear._

The consultant criminal chuckled to himself. "For all the wonders of his mind… for everything he was prepared to do for you and Ms Adler… he forgot to protect his own life. It's sad… seeing the end of such an _amazing_ mind. I think I'll miss him. But don't worry, John. I'll be alright."

_With no one to love you, you're going nowhere..._

The music slowly died out in the background, seemingly to mourn the fallen detective as well. Moriarty walked up to the still body of the genius detective and glanced down at it, before stepping forward, his eyes now on the blond doctor. "It's funny. I had rather thought this might happen. You surviving, while the others died… But I'd prefer to be the only survivor as it is. So, if you don't mind…"

John swallowed as he saw the gun in Moriarty's hand slowly rise to be aimed at him.

"… Didn't anyone ever tell you not to get ahead of yourself?"

The words seemed to echo in the concrete room and the criminal froze. Slowly, as if not doing so would keep him in a dream state, he turned around. Behind him, Sherlock had stood up from the ground without a single drop of blood anywhere on his body.

"Sorry to disappoint…" the detective cooed lightly and raised his right arm. In his hand rested a small gun that had previously been hidden in his left coat pocket. "Goodbye, Moriarty. I will see you in hell… But not today."

The detective's eyes stared into his nemesis' wide ones for a second before he pulled the trigger.

The criminal fell to the ground, a bullet between his eyes. This time, however, Sherlock was certain it was real. Jim Moriarty was dead, no tricks or hidden mirrors. The tall man slowly stepped towards the fallen one and saw the lifeless eyes gaze into the nothingness of the afterlife. Sherlock exhaled as he felt a strange sensation hit him. He had managed what had seemed to be an impossible feat for several years now. His nightmare had finally ended, and Moriarty's reign of terror was over. The criminal wouldn't return from beyond the grave a second time. It was over.

Sherlock glanced down at the hole in his own shirt where the bullet had hit him. He was glad his ingenious plan had worked. Yesterday, when he had been stuck waiting the inevitable shift in time, he had deduced 13 possibilities for the final game. The basics had been easy. He first had to ensure the mad man had no chance to escape, for surely such a venture would have ended quite differently than this one. The henchmen's location hadn't been difficult to figure out when he'd learned of the location and Lestrade had more than willingly offered his help. The bullet-proof vest had been an easy guess, since Moriarty had taken such a liking to his heart as it was.

The detective raised his gaze from the dead consultant criminal and mentally let go of him. He directed his entire focus instead on Irene and John further away under the pale lights.

"Sherlock…. You have to call an ambulance!" the blond man breathed and his gaze lowered to the woman lying motionless on the floor beside him. The doctor jumped into action once more and breathed air into her lungs. Sherlock wasted no time as he ran over and threw himself down beside them.

"Is she breathing?" the tall man reached out for her cold arm and John watched him on baited breath.

"Please call! _Hurry_!"

The detective followed the doctor's orders without questioning and called for assistance. The woman on the phone promised the ambulance would be there shortly and Sherlock hung up before she could say any more. His heart felt as if it was held together by a simple thread as he anxiously watched John attempt to revive the woman on the ground. The logical part of Sherlock told him too much time had passed, but he silenced that part without thinking on it.

It didn't take long until John's attempts grew weaker and suddenly the sound of his sobs was the only noise that echoed in the basement. The blond man raised his head slowly and a tear rolled down his cheek as his desolate eyes gazed up at his friend. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt the cold hand of shock take a cruel grip around his throat and he froze. He opened his mouth to ask, but found he had lost his voice, too.

With a slow, fumbling hand, he reached out for Irene's wrist once more. Her skin had all but dried but was still icy cold under his touch. John watched the hope die out in his friend's eyes as he dropped the woman's wrist back onto the floor.

The blond man swiped at his tears and hurried around the body to sit beside his friend. He tugged on Sherlock's shoulders, hoping to turn the man's unblinking eyes from the woman on the ground. He tugged harder until he managed to turn the tall man's head into his shoulder and held him close. John wasn't sure if he was to expect tears or a tantrum or nothing at all. For the moment, shock seemed to control the man, as the impassive mask remained firm on Sherlock's long face.

The detective wasn't sure how long the two sat like that before the medics came rushing into the basement. As soon as they touched Irene, Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. He pulled himself from John's grasp and reached out for Irene's arm, unsure as to why he felt a strong aversion to the medics taking her from him.

"Sherlock… they have to move her," John whispered, but the man shrugged away his hands. He tried to focus on the world around him, but the harder he tried to make sense of it, things seemed to become more hazy. He shook his head in refusal. If they took her, it meant…. He didn't much like to think about what it meant.

"She's dead, brother," a firm and familiar voice suddenly spoke, breaking through the traumatizing haze which surrounded the man. Slowly, Sherlock raised his eyes and saw his elder brother crouched on the other side of the woman's body.

"Mycroft…?" he managed.

"Let her go," Mycroft continued and this time his voice was softer and almost caring. With a firm hand, he eased Sherlock's grip around the woman's pale hand. "It's time to let her go, brother. Pull yourself together."

The curly-haired man nodded slowly as the words hit home. The haze which surrounded his mind cleared somewhat as he let John and his brother pull him away from the medics who hastily wheeled the body of Irene out of the room and out of his life.

The sounds of the recent occurrences seemed to echo and linger like bittersweet memories in the vast void of Sherlock's heart. Then there was but darkness in his mind.

* * *

><p>As John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street, the blond man didn't know what to say or do to handle the enigma which was Sherlock Holmes in mourning. The man's reaction had thus far been quiet and impassive. There was sure to be plenty of thoughts swirling around inside his brain, but none which he could read in the man's expression. What storm raged inside Sherlock was a mystery to all but the man himself.<p>

John slowly followed his friend as he walked up the stairs and into the living room, where the taller man stopped. He simply stood in the darkened room and made no move to remove his coat. The blond man walked over to turn on the lamp by the armchairs. As he did, Sherlock blinked and slowly took in his surroundings before he stepped over towards the window.

Through all their friendship, John was sure he'd never seen his best friend this out of tune with everything around him. Even though his shoulders were squared and his posture straight, the blond man had a feeling he was gazing at a broken man. Though there were no tears streaming down Sherlock's face, the flame which used to burn in him seemed to be permanently extinguished. There was perhaps no grief, but there was no life either. Irene had died and the man's heart had stopped beating along with her. John felt his own heart break for the man and dried his tears in silence.

The doctor pondered whether or not there was something he could say or do, but there seemed to exist no words that could reach the abyss of Sherlock's grief and even if there did, John wasn't sure he knew them. Maybe this time it was better to let the tall, private man come to him for help instead.

John was pulled frown his thoughts as his best friend suddenly leaned forward on heavy arms against the window sill and let out a shaky, heartfelt breath.

The detective spun around then and sought out his friend's gaze for guidance. Tears streamed from Sherlock's eyes and the man seemed unsure what to do with his physical reaction. The haunted look on the pale man's face told no lies; he had lost something he could not replace. He had lost _The woman_ and there was none like her.

"Oh, Sherlock…" his friend breathed and crossed the room in two wide steps. He pulled his friend close in a comforting hug and felt the other man's arms wrap around him in rough sadness. The friends swayed together in this embrace a couple of long seconds while tears streamed down both their faces.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, John," the detective managed eventually between shuddering breaths and moved to pull away. "I don't know what… how to… How do I…? I've never-"

"It's okay… sch…" the other man assured in a gentle voice and let his friend get the space he needed. John led the man over to the leather armchair and gentle pushed him to sit down.

"I-is this normal?"

John shut his eyes tight and nodded. "Yeah… Yes, Sherlock. To be sad when you've lost someone you care about… It's perfectly normal."

"What…" The man's voice broke and he cleared his throat before he continued, "…What do I do?"

"One day at a time," John promised and squeezed his friend's shoulder. "We'll take this one day at a time."

Sherlock sniffled and dried the last of his tears.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>


	21. The untold story

_A/N: __Scenes in italics = Flashbacks._

__Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.__

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my faithful reviewers who have supported my story throughout this long, exciting journey. Thanks for sticking by me. And thank you for bringing me past the amount of 100 reviews! I'm humbled and very grateful!_

_If you wish it – leave one last review and we'll call it the end. For now._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21. The Untold Story<strong>

_The woman _gazed out at the dark waters below, listening to the sound of the heavy waves crashing against the docks around her. The soothing, yet foreboding, noise helped her to calm down but also barely tempered the wild storm that raged within her heart. Somewhere above her head, the gulls cried and men all around her on the ground shouted back and forth as they worked together.

She let the sound of the waves drown out all other noise and closed her eyes to let the memories of the past few days take her back in time.

* * *

><p>"…<em>Why did you do it?"<em>

_Irene smiled sadly. "I didn't."_

_With those simple words, she turned on her heel and, too, exited the cellar as she withdrew her phone from her pocket and dialed a familiar number. She held the phone close to her ear and waited for the person on the other end to reply._

"_It's me," she said at last when the person did. "We need to talk."_

* * *

><p><em>Irene walked into the cold, grey room on swift feet. <em>

_She had left the basement just a short while ago, and the falsified images still haunted her memory vividly. After the events, she had hurried to Baker Street and tried to explain her deductions to the genius, but Sherlock had simply shut the door on her and her explanations. He had with that simple move knocked her world irrevocably off-course._

_She had expected Moriarty's next move to include her, but had not expected to be used as _both the arrow and the target in his grand finale_. It had been the first (and last) time she had misjudged the reaches of the man's cruelty._

_The cold, dark shadow she had seen on Sherlock's face as he had watched the video had sent sharp pains through her heart. He had obviously jumped to the conclusion that the video was real and there was little now that would sway his mind. _

_That was part of the reason she had made that call. She had lost him, in fact she had lost everything because of the whimsical games of a mad man. Now, there was only one way for her to get out of it alive, and she needed the help of one she had rather hoped to avoid. Now that her world was slipping through her fingers, this was nonetheless necessary. Everything was falling apart, and she had to save the one thing she could. Even if it meant taking drastic measures._

_As she stepped further into the enclosed space, she saw his figure under the pale lights up ahead. The tall man was clad in a suit as usual and stood with an air of arrogance. There was a knowing smile on his thin lips, as if he was already filled with the breath of victory, even before the fight. Irene was inclined to agree this arrogance was well-placed._

"_I must admit, after our last discussion, I thought you'd never call…" Mycroft said as she stopped a few steps before him. "Yet here you are. Begs the question – Why? Why are you here, Ms Adler?"_

_Irene steeled herself for what she knew would be another uphill battle. "I'm here to help your brother."_

_The elder Holmes boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he glared across the empty space at the woman."You must be truly desperate, Ms Adler, if you come to me."_

"_I'm probably dead already," she agreed and met the man's gaze without fear or remorse. If she refused to play the game, perhaps Mycroft would take her seriously. _

_Something flashed in his pale eyes that told her he understood her silent plea. The smirk was wiped from his face and replaced by a small, unsure frown. "Why come here and risk everything for my brother?"_

_The brunette shrugged as innocently as only she could. "I don't intend to go without raising a little hell first… I'm here to make a deal."_

_Time passed painfully slow as Mycroft's disbelieving eyes searched hers for the answers she weren't giving. "He threw you out…"_

"…_Yes."_

"_I'm not helping you get him back, Ms Adler."_

"_I'm not asking you to," Irene commented through gritted teeth. _

"_Ms Alder, I-"_

_The woman sternly interrupted, "Will you listen to me? It's my turn to talk."_

_Mycroft inhaled slowly and inclined his head. Irene closed her eyes briefly and continued, "Things are set in motion, Mr Holmes. It will happen fast… You asked me to come to you when Moriarty returned for his final game… He's back. And he is deadly. I need your help to protect Sherlock."_

_The smug, victorious smirk returned to the man's lips. "Ah!… Role reversal. How, may I ask, do you plan for us to protect my baby brother? He doesn't much believe he needs protection."_

_Her voice was cold and dark as she replied , "He has to kill Moriarty. You'll help him do that."_

_Mycroft paused a beat and Irene saw the intrigue shine stronger and stronger in his eyes. He didn't fully understand what she was getting at, but was still interested enough to hear her out. "A risky project, don't you agree? We all know how slippery Moriarty can be."_

"_He won't be this time."_

_Once more, Mycroft gazed at her through hesitant disbelief. "You sound sure. Too sure."_

"_Trust me, Mr Holmes," Irene smiled joylessly. "Moriarty won't leave anything to chance this time. He wouldn't have come back if he hadn't planned a final act against Sherlock. Moriarty will finish this whether he wins or not."_

"_You've spoken with him then?"_

_The woman shook her head. "Not yet. Soon. He knows I'll be in touch… He did-… It doesn't matter what he did, but he has it all figured out from here. The only thing I figure he hasn't counted on, is this…"_

_Mycroft nodded slowly. "You could be right. The man is clever. He must know we loathe each other more than we loathe him."_

"_Your brother knows it, too. Neither of them will expect me to come to you for help… and they never will. You must understand this is the only way if Sherlock is to remain alive."_

"_And if I help… what will I get in return?"_

_The woman paused. She knew she held his interest in the palm of her hand, and might be able to persuade him to help her. But, of course, everything came with a prize. To Irene, she could only give him the last remains of the life she had not already been robbed of. "I'll leave your brother and England. For good."_

_The man's eyes widened in surprise and he beheld her for a couple of long seconds. It seemed he was trying to figure out the sincerity of her offer. "…My brother would follow."_

"_Not if you kill me."_

_The shock on Mycroft's face tenfolded upon hearing her cryptic suggestion. "And how do you propose I do that?"_

"_First, you need to fool Sherlock Holmes," Irene explained._

_The tall man huffed. "Don't be ridicculous. No one can fool my brother."_

"_I can," the intelligent woman said confidently and tried to convey the truth with her gaze._

_Mycroft's eyes were wide and filled with shock. It seemed to this, he had no clever comeback or comment. _

"_You know I can. That was, after all, part of the reason you came asking for my help last time," Irene pushed on. "You were right. I can sneak into Sherlock's mind palace and out again without being detected. I am your only chance, and though you hate it, you have no choice but to listen to my deal."_

_The man sighed and there was defeat in his posture. "Very well. Go on."_

"_I believe I can read them both. I've learned much from watching Sherlock and Moriarty. I've learned how they work. I know Moriarty plans to kidnap me somewhere. To get to Sherlock. Now, if your brother doesn't follow, you'll have lost nothing. But if he does follow-"_

"_-you'll lose everything." Mycroft finished for her. "Tell me… He's thrown you out. What makes you think he'll follow? What makes you think he still cares?"_

_Irene pushed the last memory with Sherlock from her head and tried to hide the pain she felt. Perhaps Mycroft's insinuation was correct. Perhaps she had lost the detective's heart already. It certainly had felt like it when he had forced the suitcase into her hand and looked down at her with dead eyes. _

"_Call it instinct," the woman shrugged her eyebrows and smirked up at the elder Holmes boy. "Moriarty has the upper hand right now. He will lock Sherlock in the darkest recesses of his mind. Our clever man needs to be pulled out from that place so that he can focus and defeat Jim."_

"_And how do you plan on doing that?"_

"_Leave that to me," Irene said mysteriously. "I need you to aid Sherlock with everything you've got. He'll need back up. Use your connections, give him help, tap into his phone. I can't give you specifics, but I can tell you that Moriarty is nostalgic. He'll bring the final game to one of two familiar venues. A swimming hall or a basement. I'll text the adresses for both to you. Keep ready. Make sure Lestrade can provide Sherlock with guns, ammunition and whatever protection he might ask for. But let your brother believe that's his idea."_

"_Then what?"_

"_When you learn which location Moriarty will choose, block his escape routes and quench his ideas. I'm sure I don't have to ask you to do it stealthily. If Sherlock learns you've contributed, all will be threatened. Of course, if all goes according to plan, Sherlock will beat Moriarty on his own... But we just can't take that risk."_

_Mycroft paused to contemplate something and turned his watchful gaze back to the woman."…I'm curious about one aspect of your plan. How do you intend to fake your death?"_

"_That's where I truly need your help," Irene whispered. "I think I can figure out what Moriarty means to do to me and use my abilities to survive… If I make it, Sherlock will be tricked into phoning for help, believing I'm dead."_

"_And you want my people to take the call?"_

"_Yes," the beauty nodded. "And I want you to send an ambulance, with your people dressed as paramedics. Wheel me out and… I'll be gone from his life. Forever."_

_The Holmes man exhaled deeply and asked, "…Why are you doing this?"_

"_It doesn't matter," Irene grinned coldly, in hope that it would throw Mycroft from his high horse. "I told you, I'm already dead."_

"_I'm going to need more than that, Ms Adler…"_

_The woman stiffened as she recognized the grin on Mycroft's face. Last time, she had pushed him for more answers, and he was merely returning the unkind gesture now. She had expected to meet tough resistance, yet had hoped she wouldn't have to wear her heart on her sleeve infront of him. "He doesn't believe he's capable of love. I don't think he can describe what he feels now, so he hides behind what he knows. Behind his intelligence. But one way or the other… he cares. That's why I think he'll follow, and try to save me."_

"…_But?"_

"_But… you were right," Irene admitted with a grimace. For some reason, it hurt to admit. It didn't only wound her pride to say it to the man before her, but it made her heart feel beaten, as well. "Sherlock might be capable of love, but his mind isn't. He can't have such an attachment to anyone. He can't put the key to the greatness of his mind in someone else's hands. Least of all me. That's why it can't work. That's why I should disappear once more. This time, without him knowing the truth."_

"_And you're hoping he'll care enough to mourn you, and not see the signs that you're alive?"_

"_It's not hope, I know he won't," the woman shook her head. "I know I can fool him. But I'll need help to do it…Moriarty has to die. I know you see it the same way I do. If Sherlock doesn't kill him, Moriarty will haunt him forever. That's why we have to make your brother see it like we do. If I die… it might be enough to push him over the edge."_

"_I see…" Mycroft nodded. "This deal of yours... it's really about your heart, isn't it? Everything you've told me here tonight… Your sacrifice… You're willing to do all this because you love him." _

_Irene neither confirmed nor denied his deduction but cleared her throat in discomfort. She had let her mask slip enough for this meeting and now glared up at him from behind her protective walls. "If it runs as I believe it will; Sherlock will kill Moriarty, and I'll be gone, too. Is that a deal you're willing to make, or not?" _

_The slim beauty stepped closer and stretched out her hand towards the man. If he agreed, half the race would be won. _

_There was barely a beat, before Mycroft reached forward and shook her hand, sealing their deal._

* * *

><p><em>It had been almost an hour since the events in the basement, when Irene found her feet returning there. She had made a second call after leaving Mycroft in the parking house. Though she had found the meeting with the elder Holmes difficult, she had a feeling this would be harder still for her heart.<em>

_As she opened the door once more, she heard the scraping sound of a pair of shoes against the ground and gazed over as John stood up to meet her. The anger and betrayal in his eyes was subdued, but it was evident the trust was gone. His wide, pale eyes watched her now as she moved further in the room._

"_Why did you want to meet, Irene?" he asked hurriedly. It was obviously a question he had asked himself over and over in his head. It seemed he was searching for the reason he had chosen to wait for her at all. In his hand rested the disc with the repulsive recording on it. _

"_I need your help, John," Irene explained silently and there was a hint of desperation in her dark voice. "More than you know."_

_The short man huffed sarcastically, "Why would I help you? After everything you've done…"_

_The woman nodded down at the disc in the blond man's hand. "You know that's fake."_

"_Do I?... Do I?"_

_Irene felt his disbelief in the air and the feeling of hurt in her heart was mirrored in his clear eyes. "I would never do that to Sherlock. I would never…"_

_John shook his head and turned away from her. He could barely face her after everything that had happened. "You betrayed him, Irene… I always knew that you could never give up your life of misbehavior… but betrayal? I thought you cared for him."_

"_John, I told you – I didn't do it!" Irene practically begged._

"_I'm not sure about anything right now! This…," the man waved the disc in his hand and looked down at it with a sigh, "I just don't know. It's possible…"_

"_What?" the woman asked and couldn't hide the hope in her voice._

_John sighed and turned back to face her. "Two years ago, Moriarty had an ace up his sleeve. He fabricated evidence to make it seem as if he was the innocent one, and that Sherlock had hired him to play a part. All to make the world believe Sherlock was a mad killer… This video… It just feels the same way it did then, it's almost too insane to be true… But I don't know."_

"_Ask me again."_

_The man held the woman's gaze as his mind registered her request. Her command was simple, but John knew the truth wouldn't be. He understood what she wished from him now, and conceded slowly. "… Do you love him?"_

_Irene's truthful eyes gazed at her friend for a long second to make sure she had his undivided attention, before she replied, "… Yes."_

_John inhaled deeply and tried to process everything that had happened and was sure to come. It was all too much for his simple mind. He knew he had an important decision to make. Either to trust the woman that stood before him now, or turn his back on her and believe she was only the deceiving woman he had first met. _

"_Sod it…" he muttered to himself. He had to give her another chance. If she was simply the deceitful dominatrix, she would never have admitted her love for Sherlock. "Alright! Alright… Say I believe you… why do you need my help?"_

"_Convince Sherlock it's a lie," Irene nodded in encouragement. "You're the only one who can make him see past his hurt."_

"_I'll try…" John promised with a tight grin. "But I can't guarantee anything. I could take this to Lestrade and his people, see if they can prove it false. I was going to anyway. But…"_

"_I know, John," she smiled back. "I know you'll do your best. But there's one more thing..._ _Moriarty will expect me to go see him after what he did… I have to go. He'll make me do something… unforgettable, I'm afraid. And then he'll try to kill me. I need you to help me live, but also to make Sherlock believe I'm dead."_

_The blond man blinked at her." W-…What? What are you on about?"_

"_I have to disappear. But I don't want Sherlock to hate me. I don't think I coul-…" Irene paused and eventually let out a worn sigh. "It's just better he thinks I'm dead."_

"_What?" John opened and closed his mouth in disbelief. "You don't have to… If this disc is fake, and Sherlock believes that… You don't have to disappear."_

"_Moriarty's game is coming," the brunette smiled sadly. "It's not something we can run from. He'll try and kill us. You know that. It's important Sherlock doesn't die-"_

"_You're just afraid…" the former army doctor shook his head firmly. "It's just fear talking, Irene. Sherlock will kill Moriarty, and we can go back to normal."_

_The fair woman shook her head in reply but felt the hesitation tickle her mind. Though John's blind faith in his beset friend was one of a kind, she couldn't be swept away by it. "No… Nothing can go back to normal, John. I wish you could see it from my perspective… This has gone on for too long. If I do survive, it's better I disappear. For his sake."_

"_I… really don't understand what you're telling me."_

_Irene wet her lips and moved on to her plan instead of getting stuck on the mysteries the man wanted to learn of her heart, "Moriarty will take me somewhere and lure Sherlock there to save me. Moriarty once hinted that only ice could kill me. I think I know what he has in store for me, and I could survive it. But afterwards, I need to play dead… And if worse comes to worse, I need you to revive me and help me play dead. I need your help to fool Sherlock."_

"_I… I can't do that to him. I-…No," the man disagreed fervently._

"_John… what is Sherlock's thoughts on love? Hmm? He believes love is the most dangerous of disadvantages… It's better to end this now, before someone is truly hurt."_

"_But someone will be hurt!" John argued back with a frown. "You've already passed that point of no return, Irene!"_

"_Sherlock Holmes can't let himself love," she disagreed. "He's not the type of man who falls in love or who is fit for a relationship. The same goes for me. Us… it was just a dream, a fantasy… A lie. If I do this, if I succeed with my plan, he can have a fresh start. So could I."_

"_...I think you're wrong."_

"_Am I though? Sherlock is a brilliant man, but you saw his reaction to Moriarty's latest ploy."_

"_He was angry…"_

"_Precisely! That was his heart, we saw, and not his head. If I stay, I fear he'll lose some of that brilliance that makes him shine so bright. Sherlock doesn't only care for his head, but he is his mind palace… If I were to take that away from him, he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes anymore. He'd never forgive me for that."_

"_I don't…-"_

"_You are a great friend, John. To Sherlock. …To me. Please, help me do this. Help me cut loose from him, and we can all start anew when this is over," the woman's voice broke several times as she spoke and the sentiment to her voice was genuine. It broke John's heart as well. "Things can go back to the way they're supposed to be."_

"_If we win…" the man inhaled deeply in an attempt to clear his mind. "Let's… pretend I agree to help. What exactly can I do?"_

"_Keep Sherlock away from me during Moriarty's final game. Make sure he doesn't feel my pulse… until after you give me this."_

_Irene held out her hand towards John and he gazed down at the small syringe in her hand._

"_It's a far stronger drug than the one I've used to sedate Sherlock in the past. Inject this into my arm when he's not watching. It will slow my pulse down to almost unrecognizable… It's urgent that he feels my pulse minutes after you give me this, when the effects are strongest. Then you make him call for an ambulance before the drug wears off. It will be over quickly, so you have to plan it carefully. I have to be wheeled out of there before my pulse returns. Mycroft has agreed to help with that." _

"_Mycroft?" John frowned as a whole new version of the truth revealed itself before him. "You made a deal with Mycroft? That's the actual reason why you're leaving, isn't it?"_

"_I already told you why I'm leaving. It has to end here. Please. I'm not doing this to hurt him. It's just… It would never work for us. This way… "_

_The blond man sighed and slumped his shoulders in defeat as he reached out his hand for the syringe. "Alright… Fine. I can't believe I'm agreeing to this…"_

* * *

><p>That day of reckoning had come and gone, and John had done what had been asked of him. Still, the sight of his broken best friend had him question his own decision and promise to the woman.<p>

It had been two days since the endgame, two days since he had sneakily given Irene the injection as Sherlock had risen from 'the dead' and shot Moriarty. He hated to lie to his best friend, but Irene had become a friend, too. The sacrifice she had made, had undoubtedly been harder on her than the secret was for John to keep. The woman had survived, and now would have to live with her decision. It wasn't his burden to bear, though he wished she would rethink it all and give Sherlock's heart more credit. He knew she had been right when she had said the clever detective would rather live through his head than his heart… but it didn't mean his heart couldn't break like all others.

John now stood in the middle of the living room, gazing over at the man by the window. The detective was dressed in his robe and pj's, like always these days, and he was quietly gazing down at the streets below. The only thing different from last time was that he didn't write sad music now. It seemed the energy for composing had vanished from Sherlock's limber muscles. As he gazed outside, he swirled something small and gilded in his calloused hands.

After the man had let himself cry and feel the worst of the heartbreak, he hadn't showed a single emotion since. He had upheld an impassive wall and closed himself off from everyone's attempts of reaching out to him.

"Sherlock…?" John asked with a gentle voice. As usual, he got no response. "Molly and Greg are here. If you're up for it? I have to… I have to go home to Mary. I'll be back later."

The doctor hesitated and gazed over at the man, knowing that he was about to go behind his back one final time. Sherlock didn't even react to his words. At length, John turned around and looked over at at the couple who waited by the stairs.

Tears were streaming down Molly's face already as Greg rubbed her back in comfort. The news had struck the young woman harder than John had expected. The friendship between the two women had obviously grown stronger than the others had known.

Even the police seemed affected by the recent events. As he noticed John's gaze on him, the man shrugged. "It's really a shame, you know. Irene was a good, sweet woman… and quite the good detective, too."

John nodded and glanced back at his best friend by the window. "Mm, I hear she caught on to clues _much_ quicker than I do."

With a final nod at their guests, the blond man passed them and walked out of Baker Street. Molly wasted little time as she timidly crossed the living room and stopped right behind the silent detective.

"I just…" the woman smiled through her tears. "…just wanted to see how you were holding up. H-how are you holding up?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied in a dull voice, but acknowledged their presence in no other way. "Been better."

"I can't believe I'm actually saying this but… I'm going to miss her," Molly sniffled. "She was a good friend… So strong. But I think she carried some insecurities, too. Did you know she once told me she wanted your friends to be her friends, too, so that we wouldn't turn against her? I think she grew to care about us, too."

"Hmm…" was the only reply Sherlock offered her as he looked down and Molly sniffled in silent despair.

* * *

><p>An hour later as the sun was just about to set on the horizon and the chill of a late February evening was creeping closer, John gazed at the woman opposite him on the docks. She looked just as defeated as the man he had left behind at Baker Street, though infinitely less aware of it. Irene's old walls were crumbling and new ones were already forming in her eyes.<p>

She looked almost as pale as he had seen her on the floor in the basement but at least her pulse was beating strong. Though, as far as Sherlock knew, of course, that wasn't the case.

"How is he?" she asked casually.

"Worse than last time," John admitted and decided he wouldn't hold back. "I wish you'd change you're mind, Irene. It hurts to see Sherlock like this… he's just sinking deeper and deeper into himself. I told you this would happen."

The brunette's smile was aloof but didn't reach her eyes. "He'll be himself in no time."

"… It's like you don't even care for him. I know you do, though. You don't have to hide behind your walls anymore… Just… don't be too afraid either," John squinted his eyes as he tried to read her. The defeat in her eyes was still visible despite her attempts to hide it behind her strong walls.

Irene sighed and glanced at the ship by the docks. It was an ordinary cruise ship, already packed with happy people excited for an adventure. The ship help no such joy to her. It was merely her ticket out of London. Mycroft had made all the arrangments and kept it all in the dark. The ship would take her as far as France. She refused to tell John what awaited her afterwards, and she also withheld the new identity Mycroft had given her. The doctor knew secrecy was rather the point, but still felt sad it had to come to this. Everything had changed now, and nothing could ever be the same. Not for Irene who was forced to find a new life and not for John and Sherlock who were forced to remain behind.

"Why are you really doing this?" the blond man questioned as he saw her dull eyes gaze lower to the ground.

Irene smiled sadly and turned back to her friend. "I just have to give up on him."

"No, you don't," John argued. It was his firm belief she was making the wrong choice, but only she could change it back. For some reason, he had the idea that her decision had more to do with a deal made with Mycroft than her own heart.

"Yes. I do."

"…_Why_? You make him happy. …He makes _you_ happy. If it's fear… Share it with him. He'll understand. You can work on it. _Together_. I thought you understood. I thought you would stay… _You are_ the person he needs, who cares for him. I don't want to see him become nothing if you leave. Is there no way I can make you change your mind?"

Irene shook her head. John had always been the romantic. A feat neither she nor Sherlock had ever shared with him. There were no words that could make him see things as she did. "I can't explain it, John. Sometimes… things just _are_. It has to be this way. You tried, John. But it was over even before it began. I knew that… For awhile, I was simply fooled into believing otherwise."

"_Stop_ _this_, Irene…" the man half-begged and took a step closer to her. "_Please_. For Sherlock. Come back with me."

"I mean it when I say I can't," the woman whispered. Even though Mycroft weren't there on the docks beside her, she knew he was watching them from somewhere near by. "I'm sorry, John. It's better this way. Sherlock can never know."

"He'll figure this out, you know," said the short man. "Like he always does. He won't rest. Not when it concerns you, Irene."

"Maybe. But I'm good at covering my tracks. Hopefully, the trail dies here. I trust you. I trust you'll never tell Sherlock any of this."

John shook his head. "… I won't. Not that I like lying to him. _Again_."

The woman smiled and reached out for the man's hand. She squeezed it in her own and tried to convey the gratitude she felt towards his kindness. Though she knew she would miss Sherlock the most, there was a part of her that had grown rather fond of the doctor's presence, too. "Take care of him, John. And of yourself."

"Maybe we'll see each other one day?" he asked hopefully.

Irene smiled and shook her head. "We won't. But I appreciate the sentiment. Goodbye, Mr Watson."

"Bye, Irene. Take care. Don't misbehave too much."

_The woman _smirked and even managed a wink in his direction. "I make no such promises."

Irene shrugged her dark coat closer to her slim shape and quickly stepped aboard the large ship. She gazed down at John, who waved solemnly up at her, as the crewmen around her prepared to set off.

In her purse rested all the papers she needed to make a new life for herself. Still… she couldn't help it as her eyes searched the harbor for the tall, familiar frame of Sherlock Holmes. Though she saw many men out at this late hour in the harbor, none were the man she was looking for. Irene released out a low sigh and didn't know if she felt relief or regret. If he wasn't there, it meant her plan had worked, after all. She had pulled off her scheme and beaten the brilliant detective again.

The boat slowly left port and the woman strolled over to the bow of the ship, where she found some solace from crewmen and passengers alike. She needed to be alone for a little while, at least. The smell of salt water hit her nose like a punch and the wind blew through her loose hair as they set course for the continent. Irene closed her eyes.

"Where are we going?"

A tear rolled from the corner of her eyes even as she exhaled. She slowly turned in the direction of the unexpected voice, afraid to learn the truth of the man's identity.

For a second she simply gazed up at the tall man who exited the captain's cabin and strolled over to her. His long, dark cloak fluttered around his tall legs as he came closer and eventually stopped right beside her.

Irene opened her mouth but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again, "I don't know…"

Sherlock shrugged. "I hear Pakistan is lovely this time of year."

The woman shook her head. "I've been there. It's not to die for."

Their eyes met across the abyss that had divided them until then and all words seemed to vanish into their silent communication. The distance between them felt both like miles and millimeters at the same time.

Sherlock took in her appearance and let out a relieved breath. A weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders as he took in her appearance before him. He raised one of his calloused hands and gently placed it on her shoulder, just so that he could feel her warmth and know this was real. That she was actually alive.

As if his touch washed away the last of her resolve, Irene exhaled, too, and stepped closer. She stepped into his arms and buried her face in the crook of his neck as his strong arms slowly and hesitantly enveloped her slim waist.

"I didn't think you could still surprise me. You're just always one step ahead, aren't you?" her voice was muffled against the fabric of his coat.

"I'm offended by your shock," the man's dark voice rumbled.

The beautiful woman stepped back and looked up at him. "It would have been easier if you weren't ahead… Do you understand why I did it?"

Sherlock nodded once. "I do."

"… And?"

"_And_… I won't let you beat me," the man smirked victoriously and walked over to the railing as if he needed the extra space to move. "I beat Moriarty. _I won_. You're not taking that victory away from me."

"How did you…?"

"How did _you_?" he asked right back with a pointed look before he threw himself into an explanation, "You're brighter than most, Irene. You catch on to clues fast. You read people well, and you've already proven you know how Moriarty worked. Of course you would figure his game out. But you really shouldn't have asked my brother to help."

The woman grimaced. "I know."

"I mean it, Irene. You and my brother shouldn't have gone behind my back and decided what was best for my heart. Mycroft doesn't know how my heart works," Sherlock said and simply gazed down at her with understanding, sad eyes.

"Do you know how it works?"

"_No_," Sherlock admitted. He walked back to her and briefly squeezed her hand tightly in his larger ones. As he released her and step back, Irene glanced down to notice he had given her something. She opened her pale hand and looked down at the gold chain with the looking glass on it, shining as good as new where it rested in the hands it belonged.

"I believe that's yours," the man explained shortly and turned as he hurriedly returned to explaining everything. "I admit, I didn't realize you'd deceived me until I arrived at Baker Street that night. But then it occurred to me that my brother's sudden presence was uncharacteristic. There was no reason for him to be there. The paramedics, I realized, had arrived too swiftly, of course. And everyone kept me from your body after you were wheeled out of the basement. When I put the clues together, it wasn't hard to deduce the truth. As for John's involvement, though... Oh, that was far more clever of you! I didn't think he would ever help with with something like this, and it did throw me... But he _cares_, Irene. For both of us."

"Did he tell you anything?"

The tall man shook his head. "He would never turn on you, despite being my friend first. Regardless, he didn't have to. _Andromedotoxin_. A nice touch, I must say. If injected, the toxin mimics the resemblance of death in a person. The heart slows down and the pulse is nearly impossible to detect. You needed someone to help you inject it into your system, though, and that's where our good doctor came in. I realized - when we had returned to Baker Street - that the three times I had reached forward to feel for your pulse, your skin had turned a degree or two warmer each time. The symptoms of the toxin had started to wear off. I thought about it and ultimately faked a teary collapse to observe John. His swift, ready response, as well as the faint scent of the toxin that still lingered on his finger tips after handling the syringe, gave him away."

Irene sighed and failed to meet the man's eyes after his lengthy monologue. "…Now what?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted with a shrug and it was the first time she had heard the genius utter those words in such a heartfelt way. "All I know is that I want to keep solving crimes. And your _contribution_ to my speedy deductions and well-being is… highly appreciated. Of course, it helps that your mind is faster than John's, too."

"I do make one sexy flatmate, too, don't I?" Irene cooed.

"It's a tie with John there, I'm afraid," the man joked. "…You were right."

"About what?"

"You're not _Moriarty's_ strength," Sherlock admitted and his intense gaze broke through her defenses.

There was still much to figure out in their complicated relationship. But maybe giving it a chance was better than letting it all go to waste. Whatever the future held in store for them, whatever storm lay ahead, they could try and weather it together.

"John said it could be worth it," the curly-haired man commented cryptically and shrugged. It was obvious he wasn't entirely certain what it meant, but the words had made an impact on him.

"Maybe…" Irene began. "… there is a great mystery to solve in Hungary?"

"Or a deceitful king in Sweden?"

"A murder mystery in Turkey."

"A serial in India," Sherlock offered and shrugged his eyebrows. "… What do you say?"

_The woman _simply nodded. If the one-of-a-kind man wasn't prepared to throw in the towel just yet, neither was she.

"If you so desperately need my help to solve crimes… then I'm your woman," she smirked up at him as the cruise ship broke the waves and England became smaller and smaller in the distance.

* * *

><p><em>The end.<em>

_P.S. __There could be room for a sequel. Any takers?_


	22. Teaser

_A/N: The sequel to this story is now up, entitled 'The Good, The Bad and The Woman'._


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